


Collaring Mishka

by Shardinian



Series: Slavery in the Devildom [2]
Category: Shall We Date?: Obey Me!
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Assault, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Branding, Chains, Chastity Device, Collars, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Gags, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Piss, Porn With Plot, Sewn shut, Slavery, Spanking, bathroom use control
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 25,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29062575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shardinian/pseuds/Shardinian
Summary: The Servus Centamine.It was a competition held once a century among the Devildom aristocracy, to see who among them possessed the most well-trained slave.When Diavolo boasts to Lucifer, over one too many bottles of wine, that no servant of any demon willeverbeat Barabatos in the challenge, the Avatar of Pride makes a bold contention – that he will enter a slave of his own, and that his will be the first in five-thousand years to take back the prestigious title.With his pride on the line, Lucifer enters Mishka – his favoured pet and dearest lover – as his slave.Quite against her will.Now, with just over a month before the competition, she must be broken, trained and driven into the roll of a proper, obedient, subservient slave – at all costs.Hecannotlose.Hewill notlose.Only one question remains…Will she even survive her brutal training long enough to compete?
Relationships: Lucifer (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Female Character(s), Mammon & Satan (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!), Mammon (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Slavery in the Devildom [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132217
Comments: 72
Kudos: 55





	1. You Belong to Me.

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note #1: This story canonically follows “Collaring Mammon”.
> 
> If you have read “To Set The Worst Things Right”, that story was an offshoot, stand-alone AU in and of itself, and never happened here.  
> If you read my former, recently-deleted WIP, “Abracabadra”, know that I hated everything about it and deleted it for a reason. Anything you remember from that story is irrelevant, and I apologize for ever posting something so awful.
> 
> Author's Note #2: It's pronounced “cen-ta-mi-nay.”
> 
> Author's Note #3: Many chapters of this story will explore wildly differing kinks and abuses, and the warning tags will be updated with each posted chapter. Check them regularly.
> 
> I am writing this piece fully aware that individual appetites vary greatly, so will be writing each chapter almost as a stand-alone piece to permit readers to still enjoy the overall story while being able to skip over any particularly offensive chapters.

Standing outside his study door, I rub the sleep crusties out of my eyes, semi-paralyze myself with a jaw-cracking yawn, and sigh.

Two in the morning.

He's summoned me at two o'clock in the god-forsaken morning.

(Summoned like a human, that is, not like a demon. No fancy black candles or elaborate magic circles for yours truly, just seventeen texts, two calls I “accidentally" sent straight to voicemail, and one alarm so loud it could've been a tornado warning for the entire state of Kansas.)

(That I do NOT remember setting.)

(Or even having installed on my DDD.)

But, be it the graveyard shift or not, it is his prerogative, I guess; when Lucifer and I forged our pact, he made it crystal clear that ours would be quite unlike the rest; that even bound by magic more powerful than his own, he would never be mine to command; that I would serve him, and not the other way around.

It was an easy enough concession, considering we both know that one quick command will still drop him to his knees; in hindsight, though, maybe I still should have specified: Yes, Lucifer, I will be yours to command*.

*During Regular Business Hours.

_(Mon – Fri  
9am-5pm  
Sat  
10am-2am  
Closed Sundays and Holidays_

I give my frazzled hair a rudimentary combing-through with my fingers (going for that ‘fork-in-an-electrical-outlet' look that's all the rave in Paris this year), straighten out my pyjamas as best I can, and let myself into his study.

As always, I spare a second to close my eyes and quietly breathe it all in.

It's always so peaceful in here.

So warm.

So still.

Centuries of incense have imbued the very walls with the musty aroma of an old Catholic church.

The only sound in the room is the rhythmic scratching of his glistening black quill.

I could spend eternity in here, and never miss the sun.

Classes ended nine hours ago, but Lucifer's still in his uniform. His jacket's unbuttoned and he's taken his gloves off, which is about as close as he ever gets to letting his hair down, but he's still hunched over his desk like Bob Cratchit on Christmas Eve, dutifully toiling his way through another of Ebenezer’s endless ledgers.

If he's at all irritated that I took my sweet-ass time getting here, he’s either hiding it well, or I'm too distracted to notice.

Distracted, indeed.

I rub my eyes to make sure I'm not imagining things, then take a second look.

Huh. Half-asleep or not, I'm still about ninety percent sure Lucifer's study never had a stripper pole in it before. The imposing addition is smack-dab in the middle of the room, eight feet tall and lag bolted to the floor. I raise an eyebrow and poke a finger into one of a dozen holes drilled through it, then rap my knuckles against the steel. The hollow clunk that reverberates along its length is enough to convince me, at least until a purple elephant comes waltzing through the room, that I'm not dreaming.

“Evening, Mr. Cratchit,” I yawn. “Sorry I took so long. I was busy, you know… what's that word again? That thing humans do at night? Oh, right - sleeping. Nice pole, by the way,” I add, with an amused chuckle thrown in for good measure. “Asmo been teaching you some new moves?”

“It isn't for me,” he answers absently, without looking up. Then, as if only now realizing there’s someone else in the room, he glances up and smiles.

…Sort of.

That is to say, it was _almost_ a smile, but it dies like it had taken a shotgun blast to the face the moment he looks at me. He breathes a nearly inaudible sigh of _very_ audible disappointment, takes off his glasses and squeezes his temples between his thumb and forefinger. “Mishka. Have I not asked you to refrain from walking around the House in your bedclothes? Everyone knows I made a pact with you, and frankly, it makes me look bad.”

“Before midnight, I get dressed. After midnight, you get my Spongebob pjs.”

My overtired brain immediately regurgitates the jingle, and it's all I can do to keep from belting it out loud.

_Oh, who lives in a pineapple under the sea_

_MY-PY-JA-MAS_

I purse my lips to keep my giggles contained, (just so I don't have to spend the next twenty minutes trying to explain to an unimpressed demon why, exactly, a cartoon starfish lamenting, “I can't see my forehead,’ is, in fact, hilarious), and swing myself lazily around the pole. “You didn't call me up here in the middle of the night for a strip-tease, did you? You should have said something; I would've brushed my hair,” I smirk.

“Unfortunately, no. There is something I need to discuss with you.”

“At 2am?”

“It cannot wait.”

“Ugh. Great,” I sigh, as I step around the desk to kneel in a sloppy huff beside his chair. He hands me a hairbrush; I take the not-so-subtle hint and start brushing my frizzies into place while we talk. “What did he do this time?”

Collaring Mammon was both the best and worst decision I've ever made. While I and my demonic housepet have settled comfortably into our unconventional (yet fiercely intimate) relationship, Lucifer has been steadfast in his insistence that since Mammon belongs to me, now, _his_ mischief is _my_ responsibility - so now I know, first-hand, why the stupid bastard hates being hung up by his ankles so much. All the blood rushes to your head, your arms feel like lead, and the oceanic swaying makes you want to throw up all over your own face.

I swear to Christ, if I end this night upside-down because my dumbass slave couldn't keep his greedy mitts out of the cookie jar, I'm gonna tie his ballsack to my bumper and drag him from one end of the 401 to the other.

“What did… oh. No, no. Mammon's done nothing wrong.” (Is a sentence I never imagined I'd hear from Lucifer). “And neither have you.”

His footnote prickles the hair on the back of my neck. I know I've done nothing wrong, short of neglecting to change into my big-girl clothes, so… why does it feel like he's trying to preemptively reassure me?

…or preemptively apologize?

“Uhh… Lucifer? Is everything ok?”

“Nothing has… gone wrong, per se.”

“Ok… well, that's not at all reassuring,” I frown. “Am I in trouble?”

I lean back so he can rotate his chair, then take my first bit of solace from the fact that he straddles me with his knees and lays his hand on my head, all clear signs that I've done nothing to upset him. “No, my pet. You may be difficult, unruly, meddlesome and impossibly stubborn…”

“You’re too kind.”

“…but you serve me well, and I am…” the corner of his lips tugs into the tiniest of frowns, “…proud to call you mine.”

There is no greater compliment, coming from the Avatar of Pride, but something in his reluctant delivery rains all over my happy place. “Er… Isn't that a good thing?”

“It is, yet…” He sighs, and curls his fingers idly through my hair. “I fear my pride may have gotten the better of me.”

I twist around to look at him upside-down, and risk a grin that may or may not get my ass kicked six ways from Sunday. “Again? That mean you're down _another_ pair of wings?”

The look he gives me could've curdled milk. “Not funny. You and I will revisit that comment once things get back to normal.”

“Back to normal? Beel ate my pancakes this morning and Mammon came home from school with a shoebox full of scratch tickets; I'd say things seem normal enough, from down here. Well, except for your newfound interest in pole-dancing, that is,” I smirk. “I've got a wallet full of small bills back in my room, if you wanna show off a lit-"

With an exasperated sigh, he winds his fingers through my hair and twists.

And twists.

And twwwists.

I grit my teeth and hold out as long as I can, waiting to see if he’s just a little horny and keen on watching me squirm or if this is

OW OW OW NOPE HE'S NOT PLAYING

“OK! Ok! I get it! No more jokes!”

He doesn't let go.

He doesn't give me any direction, either, but he doesn't have to. I might well be the antithesis of a proper, demure submissive, but in the thirteen months since our pact was sealed, even his most casual training regimen has ensured that I _have_ learned a thing or two about token obedience.

As tight as his grip is, he lets me move myself around so I can fix my position – though makes a point of ensuring that I have to strain against his fist for every last inch of ground. My eyes are watering by the time I get properly onto my knees, with my back straight and my head bowed, and I have to pry my fingernails out of the carpet to get my hands clasped behind my back.

The thousand searing pin-pricks in my scalp vanish all at once, without even a courteous bruise to remember them by.

I shudder with relief, but resist the urge to slouch against his leg.

“Good girl.”

He sounds amused.

I am considerably less so.

“…ouch.” I flick my eyes up, being very, very careful not to lift my chin away from my chest, and frown at him. “You could've just asked me to kneel properly.”

His lips finally finish the tired smile they’d begun when I first walked into the room. “Has that ever worked?”

Even properly cowed, I can't resist the urge to grin right back at him. “There's always a first time. So… are you going to tell me what's gotten you so hot and bothered, or am I gonna have to strip-tease it out of you? You were about to explain why being proud of me was somehow a bad thing?”

His fragile smile disintegrates the instant we get back on topic. With another of his trademark sighs, he lays a hand back on my head and resumes his idle petting. “I suppose I was. Mishka, I have invited you to be my… guest, at the upcoming Servus Centamine. Have any of my brothers mentioned this event before?”

“Um… I don't think so, no.”

“It is both a celebration and a competition, hosted by the most insufferable Devildom aristocracy. Every eighty-seven years, the highest-ranking demons gather in the Malebolge to feast, to get drunk on pilfered nectar, and to vie for the dubious honour of possessing the second-most well-trained slave in the Devildom.”

Nothing down here surprises me anymore, but I still quirk a curious eyebrow. “Demons keep slaves? You think I would've noticed that by now.”

“All of the most elevated demons do, yes. A well-trained stable is expected decorum in any respectable house.”

“Well-trained stable, eh?” The gradual revelation that I've already seen what he's describing (sort of) brings with it a wry grin. “Like Diavolo's gaggle of Little D's?”

“Ugh. The worst possible example, but yes.”

“Ok, but… there aren't any slaves skulking around the House of Lamentation, are there? You guys outrank everyone except Diavolo, so shouldn’t I be tripping over your oh-so-devoted servants on my way to the bathroom every morning?”

“Had you arrived millennia ago, you would have been. I was forced to forbid my brothers from keeping slaves of their own after one of them proved incapable of doing so with any semblance of responsibility.”

“Mammon?”

“…Asmo.”

I burst out laughing. “So Asmo threw one too many orgies in the music room, and now the seven most powerful demons lords in the Devildom have to cook their own meals and scrub their own toilets?”

“While I am loathe to do either,” he mutters, “it is easier to scrub urine off a toilet seat than semen off the library wallpaper.”

His disgruntled admission makes me laugh all over again, because now I'm picturing poor Lucifer, kneeling on the floor with his sleeves rolled up and a bucket of soapy water sloshing around beside him, trying to figure out the best way to sponge off his little brother's cum stains without tearing the wallpaper or getting any on his fingers. 

It takes me a few seconds (and one dour glare from Lucifer) to get my giggle-fit under control, and back to the subject at hand. “Ok, so… anyone who's someone down here, except for you guys, keeps a cadre of slaves, and once a century they all get together to see who has the best one?”

“Second-best, but… yes.” He coughs under his breath and frowns at the floor, and if I didn't value my hide in one piece, I'd almost be tempted to say he looks uncomfortable. “It is a crude and uncultured tradition, and one that I thoroughly loathe having to attend. I do not imagine it will be a… pleasant evening for you, either.”

Ok, if Lucifer thinks that the outdated notion of humiliating and torturing people for fun and profit might unsettle my fragile human sensitivities, he clearly hasn't met me. I make his little brother sleep on the floor, for crying out loud.

Speaking of which…

I grin at him. “…Can I enter Mammon?”

The question, at last, coaxes the brooding smile back to his lips. “I'm afraid not, though I certainly appreciate your enthusiasm. As obedient as he is in your hands, he cannot win. This competition is not a gladiatorial battle; it resolves itself on etiquette, poise and subservience. Mammon may be the consummate masochist, but he is also the first in line to snub authority, and do whatever the hell he pleases.” He sighs, and absently scratches at the nape of my neck in what's become something of a soothing, unconscious habit for him. “But even if he could win, he would have to be my entrant, not yours. You will not be permitted to register.”

“Hmph. I should've known. Demons are downright pricks about letting humans join in their reindeer games, you know that?”

“Your species is not the issue. I imagine many of the overindulged elite would be tickled at the ironic spectacle of a human Master entering a demon lord as her slave.”

“So what's the problem?”

He frowns, and tips my chin up to force me to look him in the eye. “The problem, Mishka, is that you have already been entered into the competition.”

Ugh. Now the bastard's talking in circles, and my sleep-addled brain is getting dizzy. “I entered who in the what now? You just said I wasn't allowed to register for…”

Oh.

…OH.

...Ok, I'm just over-tired, right? He couldn’t possibly mean what I think he means, could he?

“Lucifer… when you said you'd invited me as your ‘guest’,” (I break my position to make sure he gets a good look at the accompanying air-quotes), “what did you mean, exactly?”

To his credit, he doesn't try to sugar-coat his confession. He sits back in his chair, crosses his arms over his chest and gives me a slow, considerate once-over that ends with one corner of his lips tugging into a wry little smile. “Mishka, you will be competing in the upcoming Servus Centamine as my slave.”

For a second that lasts much longer than a second ought to last, all I can do I stare at him.

He can't _possibly_ be serious.

When my groggy, sleep-deprived consciousness finally catches back up the conversation, the first instinct it spits out (the first very, very stupid instinct, mind you), is an incredulous laugh. “Me?! You entered me, the woman who made you summon her nineteen times and still showed up in her pyjamas, into a competition that grades on poise and etiquette? I hope the entrance fee is refundable,” I snicker, “’cause I'm not exactly the poster child for obedience, you know.”

“You will be.”

Now, see, _that_ should probably concern me, but I haven't consumed nearly enough caffeine to jump-start the part of my brain that isn't a complete dumbass yet, so…

“I'm actually… weirdly flattered that you'd want me to represent you,” I admit, because its weirdly true, “but I'm not a sub, or even a switch. You know that.” His skeptical eyebrow, and the fact that I'm kneeling on the floor with my hands behind my back, are more than enough to compel a bit of hasty clarification. “Yeah… Ok, sure, I make your tea and fetch your morning paper and press your suits and kneel at your feet - but only in private, and only because I feel like it, and only because it's _you_ , Lucifer. If you wanted a slave, you should've gotten yourself an intern, not an exchange student. Besides, why would you enter any contest if the best you can do is runner-up? That's not very ‘Avatar of Pride’, is it?”

“It wouldn't be, no. But I do not intend to place second. I intend to win.”

“Ok, well, that sounds more like the fallen angel we all know and love, but it's even more of a reason to count me out. If you really want to win, why not ask Diavolo if you can borrow Barbatos for a few hours? He might not be a slave, technically, but he's a lot closer to defining the caste than I am, and a hell of a lot more reliable.”

“Barbatos has already been entered. He always competes, and is the sole reason nobody but Lord Diavolo has ever won. I do not mean to sound callous, Mishka, but this is not up for debate. I have made my choice.”

His crystal-clear insinuation that _his_ choice is the only one that carries any weight here bristles my proverbial hackles. “Then un-make it,” I snap, suddenly not in the mood to humour his delusion any further. “I don't know what’s gotten into you tonight, but find some other way to deal with it. I'm not doing this. I never agreed to be a slave, Lucifer.”

“I've yet to meet a slave who has.” He frowns, then, and slowly shakes his head. “You still do not understand. Such is my fault, I suppose, for being too courteous.” He leans forward, until we're all but eye-to-eye, and steeples his fingers. His eyes are pinprick candle flames, smoldering inside blackened pits; powerful, and dominant, and utterly devoid of humour.

Just like that, I’m staring into the eyes of a biblical demon.

“Allow me to remind you.”

I'm a breath away from posing the obvious question, (remind me of what?), when my back starts to itch. It's a mosquito bite, at first, then a patch of dry winter skin, then a rash, then a furious pox; it's none of these things yet all of them at once, and it's all I can do to grind my teeth and squeeze my hands together and deny him the satisfaction of forcing me to scratch at myself like a lice-riddled dog. “Lucifer?! What the… what the fuck are you doing?!”

“Do you understand what you are feeling?”

Just when the itching can’t possibly get any more maddening… it starts to burn, instead. It feels like I've backed too close to a campfire; like I've leaned against a stove element. The sensation goes from mildly unpleasant to excruciating in a few quick heartbeats; a handful more, and I’ve abandoned all semblance of obedience in favour of hissing and writhing and digging my fingernails into my back, in a vain attempt to tear the skin off my spine before it can boil me alive. “YES, FOR FUCK’S SAKE! IT'S YOUR SIGIL! I KNOW WHAT IT –“

That's as far as I get. The rest is just screaming.

Lucifer's seal is etched across my back, from the nape of my neck to the bottom of my spine, from shoulder to shoulder. It's the only sigil of the seven I bear that's bigger than a baseball, and has adorned me from moment we sealed our pact. I've only seen it twice (glowing under a black light, at demonic raves Asmo had insisted were the epitome of Devildom extravagance), but I've never actually _felt_ it.

I can sure as _shit_ feel it now. Every stroke, every curl, every elegant line and intricate character, is searing its way through my flesh; a spark tracing its way along a trail of gunpowder, hissing and spitting and scorching the cold stone black.

All I can hear is the mouth-watering sizzle of a thick steak on the grill.

My sinuses are stuffed with the pungent, smoky aroma of cooking meat.

I want to stop screaming, but I can't.

Lucifer hasn't batted an eye.

“I am not a demon to enter into pacts lightly, Mishka. When I did so with you, it was on the condition that you would swear to be mine. That you now bear this mark is testament to the fact that you agreed to these conditions.”

“LUCIFER, PLEASE! I… I KNOW I DID, I JUST-"

“You belong to me,” he interrupts, as coolly as if he was standing at the front of a lecture hall instead of barbequing me alive. “You are my property, to do with as I please. Just because I have never enforced our arrangement does not mean that I've relinquished the right to do so, should the need arise. You are my slave, and will compete as such in the upcoming Centamine. Your training will begin at once."


	2. Do not speak.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer has informed his unwilling slave, in no uncertain terms, that she will compete in the Centamine whether she likes it or not.
> 
> But he's not _really_ in charge here, now is he?
> 
> Mishka well knows that their pact commands her the upper hand, and has no inhibitions about putting the Avatar of Pride in his place.
> 
> But would it really take so much to neutralize her power over him?

Lucifer's spell sears one last, dramatic whorl into the tender skin above my tailbone, then snuffs itself out with an anticlimactic hiss.

Doesn't snuff out the pain, though.

Which is kind of a dick move, when you think about it.

Now the only thing I can feel is my own pulse, thundering across my blistered back. The concussive throbbing is exactly the feeling of slamming your thumb with a hammer, except that it's _everywhere_ , and keeps spiking to an eye-watering crescendo every time my sweat-soaked pyjamas brush against my skin.

“W-w-what the hell… is r-r-wrong with you?!” I'm panting so hard that it's making me stutter, and can't seem to catch my breath. “You s-s-son of… a b-b-bitch,” I hiss between my teeth, as I brush my fingers across the back of my shirt only to yowl and yank them immediately back again, “t-t-tell me… you did NOT j-j-just… fucking **_b-b-brand_** me.”

“That is exactly what I've done. You will not forget your place again."

…I'm sorry, what the high holy fuck did he just say to me?!

My blood was already frothing with fight-or-flight adrenaline, and _that_ horseshit comment blows the lid clean off the pot. With an indignant snarl, and viciously ignoring the explosion of pain that rips across my back as I move, I shove myself onto my feet and whirl around to glare at him.

I don't give two flying rats' asses if he IS the Avatar of Cocksucking Pride.

NOBODY rules me.

“LUCIFER! BAD DOG! ST-MMPH!”

He moves so fast that I don't even realize what he's done until I hear my command cut itself in half. In the time it takes me to blink, he's on his feet with his hand clamped over my mouth, over and below, not just covering my lips but holding my jaws firmly shut. “I'm afraid I cannot allow you to command me, Mishka. Not tonight.”

My heart thunders into overdrive, until the runaway pounding in my ears deafens me to everything that isn't my erupting temper; my muscles tense and my hands tremble, my lips curl and my pupils dilate, and just like that, I'm channeling enough visceral rage that wherever Satan is, it's probably giving him a hard-on in his sleep.

_MOTHERFUCKER_

_YOU SHIT-EATING MOTHERFUCKER_

_GET YOUR LITERALLY GOD-DAMNED HAND OFF MY FUCKING FACE OR I SWEAR TO CHRIST IN HEAVEN I WILL RIP OUT EVERY LAST FEATHER YOU HAVE AND BURY THEM SO FAR UP YOUR ASS THAT YOU'LL SPEND THE NEXT THOUSAND YEARS COURTING SEED-SUCKING PEAHENS_

I'm the only one that can hear my seething insult; everywhere but inside my head, it's all coming out as smothered, porcine squeals.

With a disappointed frown, he tips my chin up, lays his other hand against my throat, and murmurs a few arcane words in a language I don't recognize.

My eyes widen as my throat begins to tingle with the now-familiar sensation of a magic spell hard at work. Jesus H tap-dancing Christ, what the fuck is he doing to me now?! I bury all ten nails into his hand to try and break his grip and interrupt the spell, but can't so much as bend a single finger. He isn't squeezing, isn't exerting any effort at all, really, but for all my digging and snarling and clawing, I might as well be trying to fold a slab of granite.

A human is no match for a demon. I know that, I've always known that, at least academically, but this is the first time I've been forced to _experience_ it, and the realization makes my blood run cold.

…They've been humouring me. They’ve been mastiffs, losing games of tug-of-war to their favourite shitzu so she'll keep playing with them.

Nobody's playing anymore.

I am not a woman, trying to overpower a man.

I am not even a shitzu, trying to overpower a mastiff.

I am a moth, trying to overpower an elephant.

I don't stand a chance.

I can't stop it.

...

…I can't stop _him._

The unpleasant tingling spreads until it encircles my neck, then metamorphoses into something solid, something smooth and hard and painfully cold, and if he wasn't still holding my mouth shut, my jaw would've dropped onto the carpet when all the puzzle pieces finally click together.

I stop struggling and stare at him in disbelief.

He stares straight back, cool and composed, keeping me rigidly in my place and maddeningly mute, while his spell puts the finishing touches on my unwelcome new accessory.

Mammon wears my collar.

…Now I'm wearing Lucifer's.

And I hope he likes the look of it, because I swear to high holy hell it'll be the last fucking thing he ever does as a free demon.

When he speaks again, it isn't to defend his decision, nor to explain, nor even to offer a superficial reassurance. All he offers is his first true command, delivered to a fledgling slave. “Do **not** speak,” he intones, without breaking eye-contact, as he slowly peels his hands away from my face.

Do not speak, my _ass_. Only one of us gets to throw commands around, you arrogant shitheel, and it will NEVER be you. The instant I'm free, I scramble backwards to put some distance between us, spin on my toes and belt out the command that will put an end to this bullshit, once and for all.

“LU-"

My whole body spasms at a snap of pain as blinding as a dentist's pick digging straight into a nerve. I feel it as much in the tips of my toes as the backs of my eyeballs, but only for an instant.

Then it's just… gone.

What the… hell was that?!

I blink, shake the cobwebs away, and try again.

“Lu-“

The excruciating snap comes again; my jaw spasms and my fingers arch backwards; my vision blurs and my tongue bucks inside my mouth, and - it's over, just like that.

A harried look reassures me that Lucifer hasn't moved (and doesn't have his bullwhip in hand), but even if it isn't his hand keeping me mute this time, something’s definitely stepped up to pinch hit in its place.

And there's only one ‘something’ that’s changed in the last seven seconds.

Defensively hunched well out of his arm's reach, I narrow my eyes to seething slits and warily lift a hand to the collar.

_You son of a bitch… this isn't just a pretty fashion accessory, is it?_

“Even I do not possess enough power to resist your commands,” he explains, coolly answering the bitter question that’s burning in my eyes, “but I possess more than enough to prevent you from issuing them in the first place.”

I fucking _knew_ it. What's the matter, Luci? Is the Avatar of Pride such a pussy that he can't face off against measly ol’ me without capsizing the playing field, first?

Fine, asshole. Have it your way. Seething with resentment, I grit my teeth and take pains to keep my next words carefully controlled, because even if I can't _command_ him to go fuck himself with a tire iron, I can still, very politely, suggest it. “Th-HHNNNGG!”

…or not.

It fires again, short-circuiting my nervous system and cramping all my muscles at once, and I think I might've just pissed myself a little. 

_SONOFA-_

Panting like a wounded dog, I grab the pole to keep myself upright as the horrifying realization turns my legs to jelly.

It's not suppressing my commands - it's suppressing _everything?!_

Do **not** speak.

The command is offensively redundant, with a five-thousand volt shock collar backing it up.

Keeping one eye on Lucifer, who seems content, for the moment, to give me the time and space to learn my own lesson in the most agonizing possible way, I feel my way around the collar. There's no buckle, no lock, no hasp, not even a clear delineation between one end and the other. My fingertips are filling my mind’s eye with the image of an unbroken ring of polished stone, decorated with four hanging rings, a flat tag the size of a quarter but three times as heavy, and a chain hanging from the back that I immediately snatch up and wind guardedly around my fist.

It’s perfectly clear that without a hacksaw (and likely even with one), I won't be able to get this unholy thing off by myself. I sure as shit am not about drop to my knees and beg Lucifer to do it for me, either, so let's call in the cavalry, instead. Satan could do it, in a heartbeat. Nobody knows more about cursed trinkets than he does, and nobody would be more eager to send Lucifer a heart-felt ‘Go Screw Yourself' at the same time.

Without taking my eyes off Lucifer, I warily back my way up to the door.

The handle rattles loudly, but doesn't turn.

It's locked.

Of course it's locked.

I slip my DDD out of my pocket, and am chilled, but not entirely surprised, by the fact that it has no signal.

As much as I hate to admit it, even to myself, my heart is starting to race. 

I might be… in a bit of trouble, here.

Ok… ok, just… just think for a second. If training Mammon has taught me anything, it's that every rule has a thousand and one loopholes, right? And I only need one, so… so maybe… shit on me…. Ok, maybe… If this thing is reacting to decibels, and a whispered command is as effective as one screamed at the top of my lungs, maybe I can… just…

My first two trials earn me two excruciating reprimands, but that second one… was it late? Delayed, even half a second? My eyes are watering and my palms are sweating, but I think I managed an entire syllable, that time, I'm _sure_ I did, so maybe I can just…

“Enough.” The word is quiet, yet still prickles all the tiny hairs on my arms. “I have been patient, in deference to your pride, but I will not permit this to continue. Your instruction was clear, Mishka. Test your collar again, and I will be forced to muzzle you, too.”

I'm only half-listening, and though his threat registers, it's only as a distant afterthought. I'm on the right track, I _know_ I am, and… and he must know it too, if he's suddenly this determined to stop me from trying again…

One last time, then, just barely a whisper, just barely a breath at all, don't even exhale…

“luc-"

The snap rocks me backwards and slams my elbows against the door. Searing pins and needles (which aren't nearly as funny as the bone would suggest) shoot through my left arm, and both my DDD and my chain clatter into a tangled heap at my feet.

Lucifer breathes an exasperated sigh, as if he's annoyed that I'd dare have the audacity to force his hand, then grabs a thick flap of leather out of his desk and approaches me. “Have it your way, then.”

I give up trying to whisper my way out of this, and press my back against the door, instead. My pulse is thundering in my ears, but I don't run. My hands are shaking, but I don't hold them up to try and shield myself.

I nearly drowned, once, when I got caught in a riptide while snorkeling on a south Cuban beach. Someone on shore yelled, “Hey, are you alright?” and while I was gasping for my life, certain I was about to get pulled into the black depths of the Atlantic, I gave them a shaky thumbs up.

I would've rather they fished my bloated corpse out of the ocean with a pitchfork than admit that I needed help.

Lucifer isn't the only bastard down here who suffers from an over-abundance of suicidal pride.

I stand up straight as he approaches, narrow my eyes, and mouth, slowly and carefully, what might well be the last thing I get to communicate tonight:

_I will never be your slave, Lucifer._

“You already are,” he says, as he takes my shoulder and turns me around so he can press himself up against my back. “You're just not very good at it yet.” He wraps an arm around me, pinning my arms and squeezing me against his chest, and flips open the leather muzzle.

My stomach drops into my feet at the sight of it. On the outside, it had looked no more threatening than a shapeless sheet of brown leather; on the inside, however, it looks like the bottom of a golf shoe, if its dozens of cleats were actually thin, glittering needles.

My blood runs cold.

He… he knows a human can't handle nearly as much pain as a demon can, right?

…right?!

Without hesitating, he presses the muzzle against my face. He pushes hard with his palm, squeezing the back of my head against his chest and professionally ignoring my muffled shrieks as, one by one, the needles get forced in, right down to their bases.

OH GOD

“NGH! NNNGH!!”

They're in my cheeks. I can feel them with my tongue, not quite deep enough to pierce all the way into my mouth, but deep enough to feel like metal tumors buried just below the surface.

They're in my lips, scratching against my teeth and making my saliva taste like pennies.

They're pierced up under my chin, keeping my mouth firmly shut and undulating like a millipede's legs every time I swallow.

“NGGGGHHHHH!”

STOP, PLEASE!

LUCIFER, FOR FUCK’S SAKE!!!

When he was branding me, I'd wanted nothing more than to stop myself from screaming.

Now, it's all I want to do.

But I can't.

…I am a moth, and all I can do is flutter and buck while he rips off my dusty little wings.

He's switched from pressing with his palm to prodding with his fingertips, methodically feeling for any small humps in the leather that would betray that this needle or that wasn't pushed all the way in; I'm wheezing a snotty mess through my nose, blinking away wave after wave of burning tears, and desperately trying to keep still so I don't convulsively jerk so hard that it forces him to start all over again.

I try to zone out, try to focus on anything that isn't my tortured face, try to fixate my flailing attention on the warm, moist breaths he's breathing in my ear, on the slow, steady rhythm of his powerful heart, beating against my back… but the more I focus on his body instead of mine, the harder my own heart pounds against my ribs as it dawns on me that…

…oh, no.

He's enjoying this.

More than he should be.

His searching fingers are caressing the leather, now, savoring its contours as if they were the warm, supple thighs of a nervous lover; he's teasing every needle in slowly, with a single fingertip, drawing seconds into minutes and forcing me to really _feel_ the steel pushing through my skin. There's a growing hardness pressing against my ass that I pray, I fucking _pray_ , is just a phone in his pocket, except that I know damn well it isn't, and please, god, I don't care how much this hurts, just _please_ let him finish before _neither_ of us can take it anymore.

“Mmmmmmm.”

His satisfied purr is right in my ear, throaty and thick with sadistic arousal, and leaves me breathless and trembling in horrified anticipation of what I know is about to come next.

…Except that it doesn't.

I've never been so relieved to be so wrong.

He runs his palm over the muzzle one last time, until every last inch of it is smooth as a baby's cushy bottom, then loosens his grip on my chest. “Do not move.”

This time, I don't test him.

The gentle tugs along the edges of the leather as he laces up the back and ties it tightly behind my head send splinters of pain shooting straight into the backs of my eyeballs, but I clench my fists, squeeze my eyes shut and just… wait it out.

“Good girl.”

My chest hitches in an involuntary whimper.

“That muzzle is Mammon's,” he explains as if I give a shit, as he steps around me to examine his handiwork. He tips my chin up, which hurts like a bitch, then from side to side, which hurts like a thousand bitches PMS-ing at once, then smiles slyly. “But you wear it so much better than he does.”

When he finally, _finally_ steps his ass out of my personal bubble, it's with a tight-lipped frown and a surreptitious adjustment to the crotch of his pants, both of which I take to be signs that he’s not keen on being aroused right now. (Which is good, because I wasn't exactly keen on it either.)

Still not going to push my luck, though.

Every flinch makes my face feel like it's about to tear apart at the seams, but I don't dare try to free myself. I don't move a muscle, even when he strokes my hair, even when he stoops to collect my DDD and vanish it into one of his pockets, even when he takes the end of the chain and winds it around his hand.

If life's all about picking your battles, I'm ready to concede him this one.

For tonight, at least.

So when he walks, I follow, and when he stops, I stop, as far from him as my chain will allow, and watch bitterly as he threads my leash through one of the higher holes in the steel pole and patiently winds up the slack.

Oh, fantastic. I'm clearly not going anywhere, fucktard, but if locking me up on a three-foot leash will help you feel like a big man, have at'er.

…err… a two-foot leash?

...for heaven’s sake, give me something!

But he doesn't. Not an inch. He pulls until there's no slack at all, until the back of my collar is pressed right against the pole and I'm hissing through my muzzle and flexing my tender back to try and keep it from rubbing against the steel, then taps me on the shoulder. “Hands above your head.”

I'd rather punch him in the dick, but since that option doesn't seem especially wise, considering my rapidly deteriorating circumstances, I opt for Option B, which is trying to castrate him through sheer willpower alone while I raise my hands as high as I can.

I can't move my head enough to see what he does next, but I well know the unmistakable, rapid-fire clickclickclickclick of handcuffs snapping shut, and the embrace of cold steel around my wrists.

A tentative tug that nearly chokes me into oblivion confirms my suspicion: he's chained my collar, through the pole and back again, to my wrists, such that the harder I pull, the less oxygen I get to breathe.

Well.

This is fun.

He leaves me like that, arched up on my toes and clutching at my own hands and sucking in tight, harried breaths through my nose, and checks the time.

“Damn,” he mutters. “I must apologize for hurrying things along,” (wait, THAT'S what you need to apologize for?!), “but this has taken longer than I'd anticipated, and you are due back to your handler within the hour.”

…my handler?

What the hell does that even mean?!

“I had hoped to answer more of your questions,” he sighs, as he crouches at my feet and slides my pyjama bottoms off, “but since you won't be asking any for a while, I'll do what I can to explain while I get you prepared.”

My heart stops dead in my chest as he pulls a thin dagger out of nowhere, and doesn't start up again until he begins carefully slicing up through one of the seams in my shirt instead of excising my lungs, instead.

“The Centamine is in thirty-four days. Most slaves begin their training months ahead of time, sometimes even years, so I'm afraid your regimen will be especially intense, and unforgiving.” He peels my shirt away in two perfect halves, taking extra care to avoid dragging the fabric against my blistered back. “You will remain in the care of your handler during the day,” he continues, as he fastidiously folds what's left of my bright, happy Spongebob pyjamas, “and in the care of your trainers, or myself, during the evening. You have already been excused from your schooling, and from the upcoming mid-term.” With a ghost of a frown, he adds, “I will have Levi repair your bedclothes.”

My pyjamas?!

_I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT MY PYJAMAS, LUCIFER!_

_THIS IS INSANE!_

…I think I'm starting to panic.

And I don't like it.

Despite the fact that I'm fully nude, shackled up on display like a macabre centerpiece, he doesn't seem the least bit interested in taking in the view. He checks the time again, curses under his breath, then snatches both his reading glasses and a small, black case from his desk. As professionally as you please, he puts on his glasses with one hand and cradles one of my breasts with the other.

Every muscle in my body goes rigid as he begins rolling my nipple between his fingertips, squeezing and tugging and enticing it to harden for him. My breath seizes in my lungs. My heart constricts, and sends my blood pressure sky-rocketing so high that I can literally hear my own pulse.

This is the _last_ thing I want, but my treacherous body clearly didn't get the memo. He’s teasing it out of me, and as my nipple hardens and becomes increasingly sensitive to his patient stimulation, I breathe a shaking moan in spite of myself.

“Mmnnn…”

I squeeze my eyes closed and tip my head back, which is as close as I can come to escaping, and concentrate on breathing through my nose. Ok. You're ok. At least _this_ part isn't painful, right? If I can just-

“NNNGH!”

A spike of pain envelopes my breast and ricochets up my spine, jerking me up against the pole and deafening me with the rattle of my own chains. The pain itself is minuscule, compared to all the agonies that preceded it, but a snowflake is minuscule, too, and enough of those all piled on top of each other can shut down a metropolis.

It takes my addled brain a few seconds to weave its way across the rickety bridge from confusion to dull, distant understanding, and once it gets all the way there, I groan miserably and curl my poor hands together.

He's piercing me.

Modifying _my_ body to suit _his_ tastes.

I still have my eyes closed, but the backs of my eyelids are starting to sparkle. Between the pain and the growing tightness in my chest, I'm getting dizzy. Flustered. Overwhelmed. The human body can only take so much, no matter how stubborn the pilot. I can't manage a decent, lung-filling breath through this muzzle, and my own body feels so, so far away.

My head is swimming, and I hope it drowns.

He's teasing my other nipple, now, but the sensation barely registers. He's rolling it between his fingertips. Squeezing, tugging, then a firm, steady pull that stretches my breast away from my body, and I have just enough sense left to hold my breath and grind my teeth together before the fiery jolt comes again, this time so mercifully far away that I don't even feel myself spasm.

I crack my eyes open and watch dully as he threads the second piercing into place.

It's a black ring, one much too thick for a virgin piercing.

Not jewelry, then, my exhausted brain muses, as he finishes by chaining my nipples together.

Utilitarian, maybe?

The chain links are the same polished black stone as my leash.

A matching set.

He lets the chain down gently, but the weight of it still floods my eyes with hot, prickling tears. My nipples are stinging. My breasts are throbbing. Every hitching breath sends the chain swaying, just enough to keep the pain of it fresh and ensure I have no way to tune it out.

He affords me not a moment to recover before he kneels down, pushes his glasses up and slides his fingers up between my legs, with all the casual confidence of a practiced gynecologist, then spreads my naked lips apart.

“…nnnNNN…”

The only sound I can still make slips out as a whimper, this time; the first tear that can't attribute itself solely to agony trickles down my cheek and soaks into the leather. My shoulders hitch in a defeated sob as he finds his grip and stretches one of my tender lips away from my body, until it's taught enough to pierce.

He _must_ be using a needle, but it feels like a railway spike, and my world dissolves into a fuzzy, distant whorl of sparkling lights and dizzying blackness the instant it drives home. I'm making noises, I know I am, throttled howls in the moments and trembling moans in the betweens, but I can't hear any of it over the dull, monotonous buzzing in my head. I lose count of the piercings at three, when an especially nerve-jarring shock convulses me back against the pole, and the flood of fire that erupts from my brand drowns out everything happening down below and slices a single, disjointed thought through the roiling fog.

…won't feel a scraped knee if your whole damn leg is broken…

That’s… that's it. That's my salvation. He's gifted me with so much pain that it would be a shame to let it go to waste.

I grind my bare back against the steel, then, as hard as I can, shredding the blackened edges of skin and driving deep bruises into the seeping muscle beneath, and drown myself in blessed agony.

Fireworks explode in front of my eyes.

The cicada buzz gets louder.

Soon, it's all I can hear.

I can't feel my hands, or my feet.

I can't feel his fingers, or that awful needle.

The room is swaying like the deck of a storm-tossed ship.

…it doesn't even hurt anymore.

You thought you had me, Lucifer.

But I found a way out.

Go fuck yourself.

As my eyes roll back and my consciousness dissociates into the welcoming blackness behind my eyelids, the last thing I hear is wretched, gurgling laughter.

Lucifer isn't laughing, though.

…I think I am.


	3. Belonging to Lucifer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no doubt about it.
> 
> Mishka belongs to Lucifer, now.
> 
> She will be trained in the evenings, trained to be a proper, obedient, affectionate slave, and left in the care of her anonymous handler during the days.
> 
> After a tortuous first night, it is as last time for her to be introduced to her handler...

“Mishka?”

_…who?_

“Mishka, are you alright?”

_…hmm?_

_…alright?_

_…dreaming, maybe._

_…it's warm in here._

_…his cologne fills my effervescent dreams with winter cedars and cider spice._

_…a warm room, looking out over a snowy, moonlit forest._

_…the woods are lovely, dark and deep…_

_..._

_…_

_…five more minutes?_

_…_

A gentle touch brushes my hair away from my eyes.

“Mishka, wake up.”

“Mmmmm…”

Lucifer's bedroom voice is a lullaby, sultry and tender, and coaxes a dreamy smile to my lips.

The smile sinks its claws into my face and rips it apart.

“NNGH!! MMMPH?! MMMMMMPH!!!”

Undiluted adrenaline floods my muscles before my brain is awake enough to direct them, sending me scrambling in a random direction, tripping over my own feet and wind-milling wildly every time I flail past my center of gravity.

My body becomes a macabre whack-a-mole game the instant I move, wracked by violent jolts of pain that are popping up and vanishing again before I can clearly register any of them; everything hurts, why does everything hurt, what happened last night, where I am, why can't I scream and god almighty why does everything HURT so fucking much…?!

Someone karate chops me in the throat and sends me crashing onto my ass.

“MMPH!”

Except… wait, no.

My eyes are still floundering, unable to agree on how dilated they should be and leaving the room a desert mirage of blurry reds and browns, but I _know_ there was nobody there.

Nobody hit me.

It was like I clotheslined myself on an invisible bar.

In the midst of scrambling back onto my feet, I catch a glimpse of Lucifer, standing still and unbothered by the ruckus, with his arms crossed and a chain clasped in his fist, a chain with links forged of the strangest black stone, that's rattling across the-

Time stops.

My heart stops with it.

I don't remember why I was trying to get to my feet, or where I was trying to go.

The claws of a formless Lovecraftian horror prickle all the hair along my arms, then wander, in slow-motion, down my spine.

I'm staring at Lucifer, wide-eyed and frozen, trapped inside an impossible memory I can't yet remember.

_…_

_He did something to me_

_…_

_He did something awful_

_…_

_Something unthinkable_

_…_

_What did he do_

_…_

_Why can't I remember_

_…_

_What did he do to m-_

Time lurches forward.

The floodgates fail.

I am standing in a nowhere town in the hot Nevada desert, staring down a tsunami.

I remember everything.

_Oh god_

_It wasn't a dream_

_You're not dreaming now_

_Wake up_

_Snap out of it_

_How long was I out_

_What else did he do to me_

And, at last, a thought so terrifying that it snaps me back into some semblance of coherence:

_What if he isn't finished with me yet_

Panting so hard that my muzzle's already beginning to chafe, and without, for a single second, taking my eyes off of him, I concentrate on feeling my own body, tabulating a harried mental checklist of what all's supposed to be where.

My hands are intact, and my feet. He hasn't amputated anything. (“Yet", insists my panicked monologue, but I ignore THAT voice with great prejudice.) He hasn't hamstrung me, because I can still walk. My tongue is still curling and lapping at the roof of my mouth; I still have all my hair, my eyes, my teeth…

If he did anything more to me while I was unconscious, I can't feel it.

I must not have been out for very long. A minute or two, at the most.

The thought should probably bring with it a perverted sense of relief, except there's no space left in my constricted chest for anything that isn't horror, disbelief or the purest primeval terror.

Shifting my focus back to known atrocities rather than imagined ones, I take stock of everything I remember him doing to me.

The collar. The muzzle. The brand, pounding a base drum against my spine. The piercings tugging at my throbbing nipples, and-

And _that._

A revolted shudder hammers down my spine. For a second, I'm sure I'm about to be sick; about to unceremoniously drown in a sealed geyser of vomit. I twist away to hide as much of my naked body as I can, swallow a nauseated grimace, and gingerly slip my fingertips up between my legs, feeling for the rings, or studs, or whatever disgusting adornments he decided would best suit a rebellious slave.

I remember consciously feeling the needle three times, and unconsciously feeling it a half-dozen more.

And he was still going when I blacked out.

A demented court jester in a jingling hat, driven mad by pain and the unraveling of reality itself, giggles loudly in the back of my mind.

_Bet you look like a spiral notebook down there, sweet cheeks_

I’d be the first to agree with myself, except that… there's nothing there. Confused and somehow even more anxious, I brush a single fingertip (which is all the inferno pounding through my vulva will tolerate, at the moment) over my swollen lips, but still don't feel a trace of any piercings, black stone or otherwise.

What I _do_ feel are tiny, stiff prickles, at least eight on each side, that fold flat then pop right back up again as my finger brushes over them.

I don't…

I don't understand what this is.

Already dreading what I might uncover, I squeeze my dripping eyes shut and try to ease my lips apart without doing any more damage.

…But I can't.

I can't so much as slip even my tiniest fingertip between those coarse, constricting prickles.

And just like that, I understand what they are.

They're not piercings.

They never were.

They're stitches.

The blood drains out of my face so suddenly, and so completely, that it leaves me dizzy and disoriented, as the weight of what he’s _actually_ done to me crashes through my head with all the devastating force of a tidal wave.

He's sewn me shut.

Completely, impenetrably, shut.

Horrified, I finally look at Lucifer.

He looks back, utterly unapologetic. “You belong to me,” is all he says.

I…

I don't…

…

……

…do I?

A wave of vertigo spins the room around, and my legs give out. I don't try to stop myself from falling, and don't bother trying to get back up again.

It’s too late for all that.

I'm not going anywhere.

I belong to Lucifer, now.

I've been squeezed through a juicer, hollowed out and left nothing more than unappetizing pulp, and the last drops of merciful, anesthetic adrenaline are left leeching into the carpet under my thighs.

As the adrenaline wears off, pain rolls back in to take its place. It throbs like the aftereffects of surgery, steady and dull, in my nipples, my vulva, my face, all my most sensitive places, and without the fight-or-flight rush to bolster my defenses, leaves me exhausted beyond measure.

All of a sudden, I can't ever remember being so tired.

My eyelids are heavy, dipped in lead by the depressed compulsion to sleep it all away.

My breathing is too slow, with dead, stale space lingering between every shallow exhalation.

I don't want to do this anymore.

I just want to go to bed.

And, if there sits a merciful god in heaven… never wake up.

“You understand, then.”

It isn't inflected like a question, but I answer nonetheless with a slow, detached nod.

…yeah.

I understand.

“Good.” A light tug on her leash is all it takes to get this sentient cadaver back on her unsteady feet. “Come.”

I obey, and in spite of everything he's done to me (or, perhaps, because of it), I am not at all afraid of him as I kneel at his left hand, clasp my hands behind my back, and bow my tired head.

I just want to go to bed.

“Mmmm. Now there's my good girl.” He trails his fingers through my hair, and though a half-hearted shiver of disgust races up my spine, I don't pull away. “Let us move right along, then. You can command your demons as easily with a written word as a spoken, can you not?”

I nod, too exhausted to beat around any more bushes.

Yeah, I can.

“That's what I thought. Send this message.” He pushes a DDD against my chest; I blink a handful of times, all in slow-motion, before recognizing it.

It's my DDD, not his.

And it has a signal again.

Fancy that.

He's already written out my text message; all I have to do is hit “SEND".

_Mammon, Avatar of Greed._

_You are released._

Those three innocuous words are all it takes to revive a shade of the woman I remember grinning back at me in the mirror yesterday morning. My dead heart sputters, and lurches back to life; the suicidal impulse to bitch-slap the presumptuous command right out of his fucking face very nearly gets the better of me.

Go to hell, you goat-sucking disappointment.

I can't send that.

You _know_ I can't send that.

That command would nullify every last one of Mammon's Rules.

It would set him free.

To anyone else, that might sound like a good thing, but I know better.

And so do you.

Mammon's collar is his wedding ring. It's his vow, and his promise, and the heart beating inside his chest. It's the only talisman he has; the only thing that reminds him, every minute of every day, that I really _do_ love him, and understand him, and cherish him more dearly than anything else in this world. If he thinks I've rejected him now, after everything we've been through…

Clutching my DDD and its unsent betrayal so tightly that my knuckles are turning white, I look to Lucifer with furious tears burning in my eyes, and pray that he can divine their source without the benefit of words.

_I hope you burn for this._

_I'll be good, ok? Is that what you want to hear?_

_I'll be your slave._

_I'll be your simpering little bitch._

_I'll play this horseshit game._

_I'll do anything you want._

_Do anything you want to me, just…_

_…don't make me do this to **him.**_

Lucifer's stony gaze softens, then crumbles at the edges like antique masonry. The fact that he's still able to crack at all… somehow makes the pain of what he's done to me even more unbearable.

“Mammon knows what's going on,” he sighs. “Rest assured that while this command will be sent by your hand, your devoted pet will understand that it originated in mine. You are a slave now, Mishka, and as such, may possess no property of your own – including my brother. I give you my word that you may claim him again, with my blessing and forever more, after the Centamine has ended.”

That voice.

That wise, understanding, sympathetic voice.

That voice is Lucifer's, the _real_ Lucifer, the Lucifer I knew every night before this one; the Lucifer who would take my hand in the garden and dance with me, to no other music than the midnight chorus of toads and crickets; the Lucifer who would envelop me in his wings when the nights were cold, and let me sleep that way, nestled up against his chest and guarded from all the dark and frightening truths of the world…

I believe him.

In spite of everything…

I believe him.

I hate that I believe him, but I do.

Immediately and completely.

Those few considerate words are all it takes to derail my piecemeal rage, and leave me wandering, again, dazed and alone beside the toppled locomotive.

My gaze falls away, and drifts back down to the brightly lit screen. I stare at the words written on my behalf until they blur, until their crisp black characters disseminate into the white background, and until, at last, I can't read them at all.

Oh, Mammon…

I'm so sorry, hun.

...

……

I love you.

……

…

With a heart-broken shudder, I send the usurped command, then pass my DDD back into Lucifer's waiting hand. He tosses it into a black duffle bag beside the door, and something tells me I won't be seeing it again for a very, very long time.

The duffel bag buzzes twice.

Whatever Mammon's answer was… I'll never get to read it.

“You have done commendably, my pet,” he murmurs, as he wraps an arm around my shoulders and helps me to my feet. “I know how difficult this must be for you.”

Holding his arm for support, I drag my empty eyes up to look at him.

_No._

_I really don't think you do._

“It is time to meet your handler,” he continues, as he shoulders the bag and winds another foot of my leash around his hand, until I've no choice but to stay at heel as he leads me, naked and muzzled, out into the hallway. “He will tend to your wounds, and permit you a safe place to rest and recuperate between your lessons.” The corner of his lips tugs into a self-deprecating smile as he glances down and adds, “Which must be music to your ears. I imagine you've had quite enough of my company for one night, hmm?”

Too numb to care that he just had the audacity to make a joke, I hug myself tightly, fixate on the repeating carpet patterns sweeping past my feet, and nod my complete agreement.

_Sure the hell have, Lucifer._

_Sure the hell have._

I hear my own eulogy in his quiet, appeased chuckle.

It's still an hour before breakfast. As he parades me past door after closed bedroom door, the mundane sounds of a typical morning drift out of every keyhole. A hair dryer whirring. The snap of a cotton sheet being laid flat. Tinny radio music. Someone's alarm clock – _nnnt nnnt nnnt nnnt_ \- that's been going off for almost – nevermind, they got it.

It all sounds as inappropriate as an ice cream truck at a funeral.

I don't look up until he stops, and even then, just in time to gasp, horrified at a sight I've seen a thousand times before, and snatch his hand back before he can knock on the door.

My door.

Or _our_ door, rather.

Mammon moved in with me six months ago.

“Mmmh!”

_No!_

“MmMMmmphmm!”

_You vindictive asshole! Don't let him see me like this!_

That's what I would have snarled at him, if I could have.

…but it’s not right.

It's not what I would have meant.

This has nothing to do with my fragile human pride.

What I feel in my aching heart is more akin to…

_Don't **make** him see me like this._

_He loves us both so much… don't force him to see what you've done to me._

_Don't do this to him._

_I'll play your bullshit game, Lucifer, just don't make him say goodby-_

He snaps my leash hard enough to inflict a crippling case of whiplash and slam me, dazed and disoriented, onto my stomach.

He doesn't even look at me as he does it.

With his fist wrapped around the back of my collar, he hauls me half-way to my feet and holds me there, flatly ignoring my clawing fingers and suffocating wheezes, until I struggle both knees onto the floor and collapse on them.

For anyone curious, this is not _nearly_ as fun as I'm making it out to be.

**“Stay.”**

Too dizzy to nod, the only way I can acknowledge his command is with a quiet groan - not that it matters. I couldn't disobey even if I wanted to, since he keeps my collar firmly in hand as he knocks on my door.

It flies open so fast that his third knock hits forehead instead of oak, and my heart twists itself into knots as Mammon, disheveled and clearly without a wink of sleep, steps out into the hall.

Even though none of this is my fault, I can't bring myself to look him in the eye. Instead, I cover my naked body as best I can and sullenly wish that Lucifer would give me just enough slack to hunch into a ball or hide behind his legs.

I don't know what I expected to happen next. A bawling farewell? A greedy tug-of-war that would tear me in half like a holiday wishbone? A no-holds-barred fight that would blow an entire wing off the House of Lamentation? I don't know what I expected, but I sure as shit know I didn't expect Mammon to jab a finger against Lucifer's chest and snarl something that comes out sounding like he was trying to talk and cough up a fish bone at the same time.

“nuq…Daq bIgh…oS!?”

I blink.

...huh?

“Dach SuvwI' yIchu',” Lucifer returns. “reH DojneS mIplIj.”

I don't…

…wait, this isn't another one of Lucifer's awful curses, is it?

Despite the fact that Mammon's fists are clenched and his voice is shaking with anger, the two launch into a calm, if terse, conversation in a throaty, guttural language I don't understand, nor could even name. More confused than ever, I follow the stilted back-and-forth like I was watching some demented game of ping pong, until a subtle thumb plants itself against the base of my skull and forces my head down. I don't resist the unspoken command, but I DO cheat as shamelessly as an unhappily married businessman, and flick my eyes up to keep watching the bizarre scene unfolding over my head.

Mammon hasn't looked at me once. He's making such a poignant effort to pretend he can't see me that you'd think I just begged him for change in a subway station, and the awkwardness of it is… strangely reassuring. He might be playing along with Lucifer's delusion, but he's clearly furious at having to do so - which might not seem like much, but considering how my night's been going, it's enough to warrant a goddamn parade.

“qaStaHvIS ja…jajvam,” Mammon growls. “che'wI' v… vil… vItuQ!”

Lucifer shakes his head. "qaSpu'DI' quvqu'.”

Whatever language they're speaking, Lucifer is fluent. Mammon, on the other hand, keeps furrowing his brow and sounding out words and struggling with the harsher phenomes, and if the irritated looks he's earning for his trouble are any indication, would barely qualify as passable.

He's getting his point across, though. I recognize that much, at least, when the air around him starts to shimmer and burn like colourless fire; when he narrows his cobalt eyes and bares his teeth and spits a hateful word at his elder’s feet; when he steps up to challenge him, to actually challenge _Lucifer_ , and that challenge is met head-on with… nothing.

Lucifer frowns, takes a half-step back, and holds up his hands in surrender.

...

……

…holy crap.

Mammon – _my_ Mammon, the same demon who sleeps with the closet door open so he knows nothing's hiding inside – just faced down Lucifer.

And he _won._

Lucifer might've broken my body, but I think Mammon just broke my brain.

I'm sure it was a tiny victory, a token, at best; certainly not enough to change Lucifer's mind or keep me from getting carted off at sunrise (to the castle, I'm beginning to suspect), but it _will_ be enough to warm my dungeon cell with the knowledge he never stopped fighting for me, right up to the end.

A wave of bittersweet heartache tightens my chest and constricts my throat as their conversation carries right along without me.

I watch their lips forming unfamiliar consonants for a few minutes more, then give up and slouch against Lucifer's hand.

I might as well be a dog, or a piece of hallway furniture.

Completely irrelevant.

Of all the things he's done to me tonight, this feels especially cruel. It's like I'm back in high school, catching snippets of whispers and snickers from the back of the class. They're talking about me, of course, and being effectively locked out of the discourse is both degrading and nerve-wracking.

Which, I imagine, is the whole point.

I am not invited to this table. I don't get an opinion. I can't protest, nor object, nor even plead my case, because I don't have the foggiest clue what they're talking about.

Kneel and be quiet.

The grown-ups are talking.

Dully mulling this over while my fate gets decided without me, I only snap back to attention when Lucifer bows to his brother (Mammon reciprocates, but barely), then lets go of my collar and passes the duffle bag, and my leash, to Mammon.

I watch the transaction without blinking, utterly dumbfounded.

My heart leaps, and for the first time tonight, not from pain or fear or dread.

Suddenly, I can't stop squirming.

Mammon finally looks at me, and the anguish in his bloodshot eyes is almost more than I can handle – but he forces a weary smile, and subtly beckons me over with two fingers. “C'mon, girl. Let's get you inside.”

This…

…is this really happening?!

Bursting at the seams with excitement, I look at Lucifer to see if I'm allowed to

Wait, I _what?_

Oh god… what the hell has he done to me?

…Maybe I can cut myself a little slack on this front, though. How does that old saying go? Fool me once, shame on you, sew my pussy shut, and I'm gonna make damn sure I'm allowed to move before I get the hell out of dodge like my ass is on fire and my balls are catching?

Or something like that.

He looks even more surprised by my wordless question than I am, and rewards my disgusting subservience with a warm, genuine smile that sets his dark eyes sparkling brightly. “Good girl,” he purrs. “Very, very good. I will remember, and reward, this unexpected show of obedience when next we meet.” He runs his fingers over my hair, pausing to scratch that spot at the nape of my neck that soothes him so much, then lightly taps my back. “Go. Your handler is waiting.”

_This_ command, he doesn’t have to give twice. I scramble to Mammon's side on my hands and knees, already out of breath and shivering like it was forty below, and kneel at his right hand, pressed up against his leg and clutching his pants as if he might float away from me forever if I don't hang on tightly enough.

Mammon squeezes me protectively against his thigh and levels a hateful glare at his brother. “You're a real bastard, ya know that?”

“I do,” Lucifer sighs, as he takes his leave without so much as a farewell glance in my direction. “I do indeed.”

Then I'm off my knees and off the floor; Mammon scoops me into his arms like I weigh nothing at all and gently pushes my head against his shoulder. “Shhhh. It's alright, girl. You’re alright. The Great Mammon's got ya.”

And he strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head, and I forget all about having to be brave, or strong, or fearless, and end my horrible night with my arms locked in a death-grip around his neck and my breath aggressively hitching in my chest, and sob my goddam eyes out.


	4. The Blue-Eyed Demon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucifer has finally left his fledgling slave in the care of her one-time pet- turned-handler, Mammon. Much of this time is destined to be spent helpless and alone, until RAD's classes let out for the day, but the joy that swells in Mishka's battered heart on his return quickly fades, when he reveals that a human slave in the Devildom has far more to fear than just Lucifer...

Did I burn down an orphanage, and just don't remember? Mow my sedan through an MS walk-a-thon? Yeet a bag of puppies out a skyscraper window?

I must've done _something_ to offend the big guy upstairs, because there's no reason anyone in God’s good graces should be forced to wake up like this.

Again.

First came another groggy, half-asleep panic-attack (ooooh man, what a dream, did I get hammered last night, cause my whole body feels like shiiiIIIIIT HOLY SHIT WHAT THE FUCK IS ALL THIS) – which, as terrifying as it was in the moment, in hindsight, is probably a good thing. I'm already dreading the day I wake up in chains and don't get freaked out by it, because that would mean that I'm comfortable with it. That I've accepted it. That this, all this, is my life, now.

I can't let that happen.

This is NOT my fucking life.

Once the shock had worn off, I made a humble plea to the only being I know who could make this all go away just by snapping his fingers.

_Are you there, God?_

_It's me, Mishka._

_Your problem child is being a little bitch again; mind stepping down here a sec and spanking some sense into him before he kills me?_

_…Hello?_

_…_

_…Fine._

_Eat a bag of dicks, then._

(Not the most devout prayer, maybe, but I think I made my point.)

Which brings us to now. I've only been awake about two minutes, which means you all get to join me in this thrilling episode of the Devildom's favourite new gameshow,

! UP ! SHIT ! CREEK !

(*canned applause*)

And I'm talking to **you** , by the way, instead of Mammon, because he isn't here. The last thing I remember was sobbing into his shoulder, out in the hallway, and hearing him whisper something in my ear as he held me close, something in that archaic language I still can't place. Then everything got quiet, and peaceful, and dark – and I woke up here. (Ta da.) I can't remember ever hearing Mammon cast a spell before (I didn't know he could, to be honest), but since I didn't sprout a second head or dissolve into a puddle, I guess everyone's lovable dumbass has at least a modicum of magical talent, cleverly hidden under all those layers of stupid.

Well, isn't today just chock full of surprises.

So I'm alone in my room; I'm hungry, I'm thirsty, I really need to pee, and since I can solve exactly none of those problems on my own, I’m also fiercely resenting the fact that my house pet abandoned me like this, leashed to the wall and sporting a brand-new set of the strangest restraints I've ever seen. They look like four bowling balls, except that they're metal, and hollow, and hinged, and much lighter than they look, and each of my hands and feet are locked inside one. As something of a bondage connoisseur, my professional review is that while they're an aesthetic abomination, they're actually pretty comfortable. I can spread my fingers straight out and move them freely; I can wiggle my toes without touching the steel; they're even lined with thick sheepskin where they're locked around my wrists and ankles, so they aren't biting, or chafing, or bruising any more than would a comfy pair of mittens.

They're still fucking ugly, though.

Ugly and, I'm quickly learning, _irritatingly_ effective. I'm not tied up at all, and free to move my hands anyway I like, but I can't actually _touch_ anything. I can't stand up. I can't spend this precious alone time trying to untie myself from the wall or peel this suffocating muzzle out of my face or even more closely examine my injuries, because I can't touch, or feel, or manipulate a goddamn thing. At least with a rope, you can pick away at a knot or squirm until a loop works loose. Even in handcuffs, you've still got your fingers and ample maneuverability to use them.

But these damn things?

He could've left the key in my lap, and it wouldn't do me a whit of good.

Alright, Mammon. I'm gonna assume this was Lucifer's idea, so I don’t have to flatten your ballsack with a rolling pin when I get free.

And while we're on the subject of Lucifer's ideas, I am still, apparently, subject to every last one of them. Mammon clearly spent some time with me, while I was unconscious – the brand on my back is bandaged, and there's white, gelatinous paste smeared across my nipples – but he didn't take off my muzzle, or pull out my piercings, or unstitch my you-know-what.

They don't hurt anymore, though.

No. No, nevermind. Check that. They do, but only in the distant, mellow way that pain presents when it can't quite penetrate a wall of determined opioids. There isn't a lot of heroin kicking around down here, though, so I'm gonna put my money on magic. Either that, or the gooey paste I'm trying not to accidentally touch with my arms is an alchemical anesthetic of some sort, and I'm just comfortably numb.

…To everything except the muzzle, that is. That fucking thing still hurts like a sonofabitch. I don't know why he fixed up everything _except_ that – especially considering the fact that it had once been his, according to Lucifer, so he _must_ know how excruciating it is – but he didn't.

Can't win'em all, I guess. That'd only be fair, since I've won so many great and glorious prizes tonight as it is. Wouldn't want to get greedy or anything.

Ok, well, let's get this shit-show in the road. I fumble my way through a mountain of pillows so I can sit myself up in the corner, and take a good look around.

Or a quick look around, as it is, because it turns out there's not a whole helluva lot to see from here. He's chained me to the furthest, most isolated corner of my room, and rearranged my furniture to form a large, haphazard cell. The dining table, flipped on its side, is blocking my view of the door, and his car (which he tearfully begged me to let him keep in here when he moved in with me) is blocking my view of everything else.

…Huh. Wonder why he even bothered? A few errant pieces of furniture do not a prison cell make, and would prove nothing more than an elementary school obstacle course if I could actually stand up or break this damn leash, so… what's the point?

Ugh.

What's the point of _any_ of this?

I snort an irritated sigh, and slouch against the wall.

The movement sends my distended bladder sloshing around my gut like an overfilled water balloon, and it settles in just the right way to leave me curling my toes and squeezing my thighs together. I cast a harried look in the direction of the door, and end up staring impatiently at the bottom of my dining room table, instead. For fuck's sake. Mammon, dear, hun, my sweet darling idiot who didn't have the foresight to leave me a bedpan or even a litter box, you’d better get your ass back here ASAP, before your Mistress marks her territory all over this nice clean carpet.

Ok, just don't think about waterfalls or garden hoses, and you'll be fine. Just stay distracted. Breathe, relax, and focus on anything else.

So, let's see. He's dimmed the magical torches in here, the same way I do when I'm trying to relax after a hard day, leaving the room bathed in a soothing twilight. There's incense burning somewhere, too – sandalwood, my favourite hold-over from the human world. I'm sitting in his bed, that fleecy pink dog bed decorated all over with white dog bones that he still insists, to anyone who asks, are gruesome human femurs (clearly implying that it's a badass bed for badass demons, not a snuggly cushion for drooling German shepherds.) Every pillow I own is piled together with the sheets off my bed, my comforter, a bunch of Mammon's shirts, and an extra dozen pillows I _don't_ own. (Which look suspiciously like they came from Belphie's bed.)

Hehehe. My little magpie's been thieving again.

Oh, and the radio's on, which is… unusual. I never listen to the radio, and neither does Mammon. It's playing at about the same nonintrusive volume as elevator muzak, and tuned to… is that an easy listening station?

…Seriously? Hell has an easy listening station? Guess there's no better way to unwind after a grueling day in the pits than hanging up your horns and kicking back to enjoy all the Devildom’s greatest soft rock hits from the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. To say it wouldn't be my first choice of ambiance is an understatement, but I can't very well shut it off, so I guess I get to sit here and be serenaded by the Devildom’s version of Michael Bolton until my brain rots and my ears bleed.

Huh. Maybe _that's_ why the Devildom has an easy listening station.

Welcome to Hell.

All Bublé, all the time.

Since there's nothing else in my immediate vicinity, no end table left a bit too close that I could topple over and investigate, no ‘accidentally' overlooked keyring hanging above my head or DDD left charging on a cord a little too long, I busy myself searching the pillows, instead. One by one, I shuffle them around so I can pat them down with my elbows, hoping against hope that my reluctant handler might've left me that proverbial ‘iron file in the birthday cake.’ I check every pillow, shake out the sheets, pat the comforter down, corner to corner, even flip Mammon's bed upside-down and scour the bottom for hidden pockets.

Nothing.

Ugh. Mammon might be playing the game unwillingly, but apparently he's playing by the rules.

I wonder how much Lucifer's paying him.

…or how badly he threatened him.

Whoa, nope, not going there, let's shut that shit down before it starts, shall we? I am in no way prepared to face whatever's at the bottom of that ominous rabbit hole just yet, so let's think about something else. _Anything_ else.

…I really need to pee.

FUCK OFF BLADDER NOBODY ASKED YOU

Take two, from the top.

Ok, well… I'm a big girl. I know demons and humans are two different species. I get that. They play by different rules down here, and those rules don't tend to favour the mortals. I accepted the risk inherent in fraternizing with hellions long ago, and am prepared to handle, and maybe even forgive, anything Lucifer has in store for me. But if he's holding my sensitive pet at gunpoint, if he's threatened his freedom or his life, if he's threatened to separate us, to send me back to the human world, for good, this time, unless Mammon does what he's told, and –

WTF, BRAIN. Did I not JUST instruct you to think about anything _except_ this? I need _someone_ on my damn side, you ignorant shit. Work with me, here.

In a desperate attempt to refocus my anxiety, I bulldoze my nest back together and busy myself trying to lay down in a position that doesn't hurt too much or make me want to piss myself. After a few determined, distracted minutes, I end up on my back, staring at the cobwebs on my ceiling.

…why are there cobwebs on my damn ceiling? I have a slave, for fuck's sake. Hrrmm. I really need to follow-up more diligently when I command Mammon to dust our room.

That meandering observation regarding dust bunnies and the slaves who serve them is all it takes to start my anxious mind spinning again.

…is this what's in store for me, then? Tip-toeing buck naked around the House of Lamentation with my arms bound behind my back and a feather duster sticking out of my ass, knowing I won't get to eat, or sleep, or even take a five minute break, until my dickhead Master can run a white glove over every last picture frame in the house without uncovering a single speck of dust? Kneeling over the communal toilet with a toothbrush handle clenched between my teeth, trying to work the bristles up under the lip of the bowl to get at that last hunk of caked-on shit so my tender ass doesn't have to spend another hour feeding the insatiable cracker of my Master's bullwhip?

Lucifer kept talking about training me, but… training me to do what, exactly? Serve the perfect cup of Earl Grey? Swallow a half-gallon of scalding demon cum without dry-heaving?

The cobweb has no answers, but invites countless more questions.

Like the whole nature of this competition, for starters. What is it, exactly? Are there judges? Report cards? A jumbotron scoreboard; Two points for the human slave, Three for the demon, bottom of the ninth and nobody's going home? Are there events? A bastardized Olympics, with the hundred meter fuck-me crawl or the thousand lashes marathon? Does it have categories? I mean, a butler and a concubine would both qualify as slaves, but they couldn't compete head-to-head, could they?

As the questions pile up and start rattling around between my ears, my twisted imagination takes over where reason starts to drown.

I can see my future, through one blurry cobweb.

I can see the flat, red sky.

I can hear the excited murmurs of the crowd.

My wrists are staked to a wooden frame, laid horizontal like a mockery of the most comfortable king-size mattress; my teeth and tongue have been ripped out, leaving my bloody mouth unprotected and good only for sucking; my hips are jacked up and my ankles bound in stirrups, permitting the curious crowd an unobstructed view of my asshole and stapled-open pussy.

They've sewn my eyes wide open, so I have to watch, and are meticulously scoring every minute of my misery on a standardized scale of one to ten.

They whet their appetites with prosthetics, stuffing me full of vibrating toys of all shapes and sizes so they can watch me writhe and whimper, so they can nudge each other and snicker as every forced orgasm leaves me moaning and sobbing and convulsively bucking against empty air, and when they bore of torturing me with pleasure, move on to pain, instead. They fill my mouth and ass and pussy with their claws and fingers and hot, forked tongues, with their fists and their tails and their deformed demon cocks, until I'm bulging and swollen and screaming for mercy, and since half the fun in Hell is spitting in the face of God's divine creation, when they run out of natural holes to fill, take the sickest sort of pleasure in creating unnatural ones, instead.

They tear open my navel, and fuck my belly.

They crack open my sternum and fold my ribcage apart, and take turns using the hummingbird beating of my heart as the vibrator in a living fleshlight.

They slice open my trachea, and…

…and…

My train of thought violently derails, and all the awful things I was imagining dissolve like wet cotton candy.

Oh, fuck _me._

Maybe I was squirming too much.

Maybe I was unconsciously clenching my abdomen at the thought of being raped to death under a flat, red sky.

Maybe I _literally_ scared the piss out of myself.

Maybe it doesn't matter what I did to trigger it, and all that matters now is that my bladder has gone from raising a polite hand at the back of the class to flipping over desks and throwing an autistic tantrum at the top of its lungs.

I need to pee. I desperately, painfully, need to pee, right - and I mean RIGHT – fucking now.

Clutching one of my stupid bowling balls against my stomach, I turn back to the door I can't see, narrow my eyes, and will it to swing open just in the nick of time.

Come on, cocksucker.

Abraca-fuckingOPEN

…

…

……

Mammon, where the fuck _are_ you?!

I clench every muscle below my navel, then roll onto my side to try and alleviate the pressure. What time is it, anyway? I can't see a clock. My room doesn't even have any windows. Is it even still ‘today’? If he knocked me out with magic, should a better question be, ‘What day is it?’ When was the last time I went to the bathroom? I went right to Lucifer's study from my room, so sometime before that; after dinner, maybe, or just before bed last night…

Ok, trying to nail down a timeline is _not_ helping. If anything, thinking about it is only making things worse. I roll over again, but that doesn't help either. I roll over, sit up, arch my back, lay back down again, but no matter what I do, it still feels like eyeballs are bobbing on a warm, yellow ocean. Oh come on! There has to be _something_ I can do; I am NOT going to piss all over my bedroom floor like an un-housebroken puppy. Mammon _has_ to be on his way back, right?! Just another five seconds. …Ten. Ten seconds. Hold it another thirty seconds; It's like a bus, just like a city bus, it'll be late for hours, but right around the corner the second you light a smoke, and

an aggressive, involuntary contraction rips the choice out of my hands and dribbles it down the inside of my thigh.

SONOFA

I scramble to the end of my leash, knock all the pillows out of the way, hunch down on my elbows and knees and hide my humiliated face in my arm, and give up trying to hold it in.

The relief I expect to feel never materializes. There comes no shaking exhalation, no long, satisfying stream. Instead, all my aggressively contracting bladder can manage is a handful of pathetic drips, squeezed between my stitches.

“Nnngh… nn… n… HNNNGHHH!”

OH GOD IT BURNS

FUCK

OH FUCK ME

IT BURNS AND I CAN'T GET IT OUT

It burns like I’m passing a gallon of scalding water, like someone smothered my moist vulva in throat-searing hot sauce; my eyes are watering and my breath is hitching in my chest, and I want to stop squeezing, but I can't. My bladder contracts again, as determinedly as if I was birthing a child through my urethra, and I scream into my muzzle as the pressure stretches my stitches and the swollen flesh between them.

“MMMNNNNNNGHHHH!!”

A colossal push turns me into a calcified shower head, firing razor-thin streams in a dozen different directions at once. I'm showering myself in my own hot piss; the sticky liquid is dripping down my legs and my arms and soaking into the bottom of my muzzle, but now that it's coming, I squeeze my eyes shut and hold my breath and push through the pain with everything I have.

LUCIFER YOU SHITTY EXCUSE FOR A PEACOCK YOU FUCKING DID THIS TO ME

By the time the last hissing stream quiets to a slow, lazy drip, my arms are shaking. I stay where I am, though, breathing in the stink of all the concentrated urine that's saturated the leather hugging my face, and shudder with disgust.

For so, so many reasons.

…I am going to execute someone for this, violently and publicly. And right now, I really don't give a shit who that someone happens to be.

The worst of it might be over, but my crotch is still burning like I'd lubed myself up with battery acid, and the only thing I can do about it is stuff a cow-spotted pillow up between my legs, to soak up the last of it.

…Sorry, Belphie. You might wanna wash this one before you use it again.

It takes me a while to summon enough willpower to get my sorry ass moving again. I don't know why the compulsion to hide the evidence of my ‘accident' is so strong, when I should really be shoving it right in my handler's face the second he walks in, but... I'm a sad, prideful creature. I don't want anyone to see what I've done, even if it wasn't my fault.

I don't want anyone to see what I've become.

This isn't me.

This is NOT my life.

Trying to wield tools with my hands locked away is a frustrating, miserable endeavor, but I manage to drag over a bedsheet and clean myself up as best I can, then ball up the sheet and kneel on it to try and soak my mess out of the carpet.

Congratulations, Lucifer.

You finally got me to kneel.

Feel like a big man, yet?

I collect the soiled sheet in my arms, wrap it up tight, and lob it towards Mammon's convertible.

And because it's physics' turn to kick me in the proverbial nuts, instead of disappearing out of sight and out of mind on the floorboards somewhere, the sheet unfurls mid-flight and gracefully drapes itself, as wide as a freeway billboard, over the windshield. All that's missing now is a flashing neon sign hung over the yellow stain proclaiming

>>> *IT'S PEE* <<<

…

…fuck my life.

I wonder if I could smother myself to death with one of these pillows?

Oh. Right. Not with my hands locked inside these enormous eyesores, I can't.

Raincheck, then.

I flop back into my nest and shuffle around until everything’s aching in just the right way to balance itself out, then close my eyes, heave a tired sigh, and resign myself to listening to the radio. Maybe I can at least keep track of the time by counting the songs, or something. The music might be awful, but at least it's the normal sort of awful.

I could use a bit of normal right about now.

I've only counted four, though, when I smell something (something other than urine, that is) that makes me forget all about the radio and start salivating like one of Pavlov's dogs.

It's food.

Warm, delicious, home-cooked, just-how-mother-used-to-make-it _food_. Since my room backs on to the kitchen, it gets inundated multiple times a day with the mouth-watering smells of bacon and bread and steak and freshly brewed coffee, but I don't ever remember it smelling this tantalizingly good befo-

MY ROOM BACKS ONTO THE GODDAMN KITCHEN

In an instant I'm up and whirled around, banging on the wall for everything I'm worth. HEY! HEY!!! The metal spheres reverberate deafeningly when they strike the brick; every impact jars my arms right up to my shoulders and buzzes through my teeth, but I can hear someone over there, I can hear the muted chunks and clangs of cookware, and if I can hear that, they HAVE to be able to hear me, right?!

SOMEONE? ANYONE! GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!

I bang one last time, hard enough to rattle the pictures on the wall, then press my ear against the brick to listen for an answer.

A tap is running. Then it stops. Muffled voices. The fridge slams shut.

Someone's over there, all right.

But they're still cooking.

I drop my forehead against the wall as my heart sinks into my knees.

They can't hear me. Of course they can’t. Lucifer would’ve thought of that. I slump back down and grudgingly wonder how long Belphie screamed and clawed and pounded on the attic door before he realized the same thing.

When Lucifer hides something away, it _stays_ hidden.

Ugh.

This _sucks._

With a rumble that could've put Beel to shame, my stomach agrees. Yeah, yeah. I hear you. Geez, the least Lucifer could've done was feed me before he shut me up. Hey Mishka, I'm about to go medieval on your face, but here, have a Pop Tart.

My room smells like hamburgers now, and I can't stop drooling.

Someone on the other side of the wall is getting pretty loud, too, to the point that I can almost, but not quite, make out what they're saying. Definitely bothered by something, at least. Must've just caught Beel with his hands in th-

IT'S MAMMON OMFG IT'S MAMMON'S VOICE I KNOW IT IS HE'S FINALLY BACK

…Hrrmm. I think I finally understand why dogs get so bloody excited when they see their Master’s car pull into the driveway.

Sure enough, it's not two minutes before my bedroom door creaks open, and I'm already at the end of my leash, kneeling up and mewling happy little hums into my muzzle and practically prancing in place and not giving a crap in the world about piss-stained bedsheets or how stupid and pathetic I look.

“Hey girl,” Mammon whispers, as he quietly sets something down and creeps across the room, “you awake?”

“MM-HM!” (My ecstatic affirmative translates, in my head, to something like:

OMFG WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN I’M AWAKE AND I'M THIRTSY AND HUNGRY AND MY FACE HURTS AND I KNOW I'M NOT USUALLY THIS CLINGY BUT I NEED A GODDAMN HUG

When he thought I might've still been sleeping, he'd been quiet as a mouse. Now that he knows I'm awake, he comes crashing between his car and my china hutch with all the tact of a rampaging warthog. “MISHKA! You got no idea how badly I needed to hear your voice, girl! Are you alrig-” He stops dead, utterly perplexed, when he sees the bedsheet draped over his car. “Huh? Ya didn't like this one, or somethin'?”

Yes, Mammon. That's it. The thread count was offensively low, so I peed all over it.

Still trying to decipher the hidden message I left him, he collects the sheet, frowns at the stain, then sniffs it. “Oh. OHHHhhhh.” Yeah. Now he gets it. His cheeks turn bright red, until he looks more embarrassed at having uncovered the truth than I was when I was making it, then in an astounding show of ‘I know my Mistress better than she thinks I do’, he crunches up the sheet, throws it off towards the door, and doesn't say another word about it.

Good boy.

“How're ya feelin'? Oh – oh shit, hang on!”

Just when I think he's about to bail on me, he glances over his shoulder to make sure we're still alone, then lays a hand on his collar, gets down on one knee and bows his head. “Mistress.” Then, with a little less elegance and a lot less respect, grumbles under his breath, “screw Lucifer, tryin' to tell me I can't kneel for my own damn Mistress anymore; who does he think he is, huh? There's only one person down here who gets to boss me around, and he ain't it.”

…damn. Here I am, fighting tooth and nail to cling to some semblance of freedom, while Mammon's risking his ass for the right to keep calling himself my slave.

Before I can divine some existential meaning from that, Mammon's back on his feet, digging through the duffle bag that Lucifer had prepared yesterday (last night? this morning?) and rambling a mile a minute, pelting me with a barrage of questions I have no way to answer.

“Did ya get any sleep at all? I ain't real good at magic, but I practiced that spell all night, figurin' ya might need it. Did it work? Even for a few hours? Lucifer said I ain't supposed to put you down like that, but how the hell’d he expect ya to get any rest, after sufferin' through all that crap? Are ya still hurtin'? Did the salve help at all? I dunno how long that stuff lasts; I got the recipe from Simeon, and it's supposed to work on humans, but it ain't like I had a chance to test it out first.” (I haven't seen him this excited since that time Akuzon sent him doubles of everything he'd ordered by mistake, and didn't charge him for it.) “I've got more, if it's wearin' off; do ya want another shot? On your… uhh… piercings? Those suckers looked pretty raw this morning; ya think he would've at least had the decency to start ya off with somethin' thinner. Oh! But maybe… err, I mean, you're almost definitely gonna need some more of this salve, ya know… “ he clears his throat and tactfully avoids making eye-contact, “…down there. I mean… even if it was workin', it would've gotten washed off when you…” he glances towards the door, and even though neither of us can see it from here, I know we’re both seeing the same flashing neon sign (>> IT'S PEE <<) in our heads, “… when you had to go… and… uhh… yeah, speakin' of that… nothin’ I read said anything about… I mean...”

…bless his innocent heart, he sounds more uncomfortable at the fact that I pissed myself than I am.

And I am worlds of uncomfortable, for the record.

“Um… so… just so I don't let it happen again, how many times a week do humans gotta… ya know… go to the bathroom?”

Despite the humiliated flush burning on my cheeks and the overwhelming compulsion to curl up in a ball and spontaneously die, I still quirk a confused eyebrow.

...times a week?

Don't you mean, ‘times a day’?

“Ahh… right, sorry… ya can't really answer anything, can you? Ok just… hang on a sec…” He pulls put his DDD and hits a speed-dial.

…

…

“Hey. Yeah, got a question for ya. How many times a week do humans gotta use the bathroom? … … … Well look it up, then! … … ‘Cause I'm busy takin' care of her, that's why!”

…

…I wonder who he's talking to?

…

“… … … Seriously? Every day? … … More than once?! Hold on, I gotta write this down…”

And just like that, everything makes sense.

Mammon might know how to protect a human, how to serve one, and even how to love one.

But he doesn't have the first foggiest idea how to take care of one.

Lucifer handed him a hamster, and said, “take care of this small and fragile thing", and my guardian demon must have spent his next stressed-out hours googling “what hamsters like" and “how to make hamsters happy" and “how to not kill a hamster", then constructed my little Habitrail world with comfortable pillows and soothing lights and familiar incense, and even left the radio on, like humans do for their most beloved pets, so I wouldn't be lonely.

By the time he hangs up the phone, I am so helplessly in love with him, all over again, that it's bringing tears to my eyes.

He glances down at me with a frown. “Ya heard all that, right? Is he right? Do you guys really need to go, like, every day?”

I nod, then hold out my arms, knowing full well I must look like a toddler asking for Upsies, but I don't rightfully care.

“Mmm! MmMMM!”

HUG ME PLEASE

Mammon furrows his brow, then sighs in (apparent) understanding. “You want those things off, huh?”

(Huh? I want what off? Ok, touché, everything, obviously, but first get your ass down here and H-U-G M-E)

“I wish I could – and I mean I _really_ wish I could – but Lucifer's givin' me all these rules about keepin' ya here, and if I don't do what he-HRRPPP!”

HUG ME YOU WITLESS COCKSOCKET

Since I can't say the words and he sucks at charades, I throw my arms around his knees, yank his feet out from under him, and drag his startled ass into a hug whether he wants it or not.

“OOOHHHHH! _That's_ all ya wanted! That’s easy,” he grins, as he pulls me into his lap, wraps his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. “Why didn't ya say so, dummy?”

…I'm not going to dignify that dumbass question with a response.

I immediately forgive him that, though, and everything else, as he squeezes me up against his chest, gently strokes my hair and breathes some badly-needed reassurances in my ear.

“You're alright, girl. I gotcha. The Great Mammon's gotcha. I know you're used to takin' care of me, but this time, just for a while, I'm gonna take care of you, ok? No matter what happens at night, I'll be right here waitin' for ya every morning. You're gonna make it through this, and when ya do, I'll be first in line to watch ya kick Lucifer's ass for pullin' this shit in the first place. This is only for a month, remember, just a measly little month, so if ya ever need a happy thought to get ya through, just imagine a day two months from now, when you can waltz into a council meeting and command Lucifer to suck Satan's dick in front of Lord Diavolo,” he grins.

That… actually helps.

A lot.

And just like that, my collar doesn't feel quite so suffocating anymore. I would have smiled, if I didn't think the expression would rip my cheeks apart, so have to settle for a satisfied hum, instead. “Mmmm…”

“Haha! There ya go, girl!” He pushes me back just far enough to look me in the eye again, and smiles the sort of smile that makes everything else in the world melt away. “Now let's get ya fixed up a little, ok?” He drags the duffle bag over, pulls out a pack of baby wipes, and rips it open with his teeth.

…those are easy-open packages, but whatever. You do you.

Wait, what _exactly_ does he think he's gonna do with those? Hold your horses there, eager beaver; I can think of at least a half-dozen things my handler should be handling _before_ thinking he's going to scrub me down like a snotty toddler, and getting me the hell out of all this industrial hardware is right at the top of the list.

I recoil before he can touch me, shake my head, and drill an indignant glare straight through his eyes and into the back of his skull. “Nn Nn!”

“Huh? What's wrong?” He looks from me to the damp cloth and back again, struggling to fit the pieces together, then lights up when it all makes sense. “Oh! ‘Course you're skittish; who wouldn't be, after everything he did to ya. You got nothin' to worry about, though; this won't hurt, I promise. Here, look.” He runs the wipe across his cheek, smiling reassuringly. “See? Totally harmless.”

I KNOW WHAT A FUCKING BABY WIPE IS, DIPSHIT

That thought must've made it all the way to my eyes, because now he looks hurt, and I feel bad. Goddammit. Something, I can't quite put my finger on it, is making me especially cranky today. Could be the loss of my favorite pyjamas, or I'm hungry and just need a Snickers, or all the excruciating torture.

Who knows.

I sigh, make a conscious effort to wipe all the angry off my face, and pat his leg. Sorry about that. I know you're trying your best.

We exchange a look of mutual regret that drags into an uncomfortable silence.

“Oh man,” he finally mutters. “This is gonna be harder than I thought.”

The Understatement of the Century actually makes me chuckle, and he perks back up at the unexpected win. Alright, hun. Let's try this, then. Eyes on me. I tap him again to get his attention, then make poignant eye contact to let him know I'm up to something. He nods, focuses more intently than I've ever seen him do at school, and waits for me to take the lead.

Alright. See these? I hold out my hands and tap the spheres together, staring at them the whole time so he can follow my eyes. There you go. Good boy. And these? I lift up my leash and rattle it against the wall, then gingerly touch my muzzle, then look back at him and force myself to whimper to tie it all together.

_Please_ get this shit off me.

His eyes soften, until I can see straight though the windows and into his soul; until I can see everything he's been trying to hide, for my sake: the anguish and the hurt, the guilt and the worry and the pity and at the very bottom, underneath it all, the answer I don't want to hear, any more than he wants to say it.

“I know what you're tryin' to ask me,” he sighs.

…And I know what you're going to say, don't I?

“Alright, well… I ain't gonna insult you by bein' vague about this, so… No. I can't let you go. And the fact you didn't know that already means there's a lot about all this you still don't know.” He pushes away the baby wipes and the duffle bag, and forces a reassuring smile. “We'll come back to those later, ok? How much did Lucifer explain, before he went all Avatar of Pride on you?”

How much? I'm sorry, that is a Quantity, and Quantities are not a thing I am currently capable of describing. Yes or no questions only, please.

I stare at him, not bothered or irritated, just a flat, steady stare, until he gets it.

“Oh, right. Sorry. I gotta keep remindin' myself you can't talk.” He pushes a bunch of pillows out of the way so he can sit against the wall, on my side of the leash, and pats the spot beside him. I join him, and there's immediately something about sitting shoulder to shoulder, rather than face to face, that feels… comfortable. I'm not the center of attention anymore, not the naked, brutalized centerpiece in the middle of the table, I'm just… me. We’re just us. Two friends, just… hanging out. Shooting the shit. I lay my head against his shoulder, close my eyes, and listen.

“Lucifer didn't explain very much, did he?”

Ah, thank you. Yes or no, this time.

I shake my head.

“Did he at least tell ya this is temporary?”

I nod.

Yeah.

“And that he’s doin' all this just so he can win some stupid contest?”

Yeah.

“And that he's a dumb, sadistic jerk?”

I chuckle, and nod.

Yup. Told me that, too.

“Good. ‘Cause he is. So he must've told ya that this is all about tryin' to make you into the perfect… uhh… slave,” (he says the word like it tastes sour) “but did he explain how that was gonna work, exactly?”

I sigh, and shake my head. No. There was just a whole lot of screaming, by that point.

“Ok. I'll fill ya in, as best I can.” He nudges me with an elbow; I crack my eyes open to see him holding out his hands, one above the other. “It's a totem pole kinda thing. This is Lucifer,” he wiggles the fingers of his highest hand, “sittin’ at the top. He's your Master, and gets to… oh come on, don't look at me like that. I don't mean he's your for-real Master, like you're my for-real Mistress. Cut me some slack, here.”

His ‘for-real' Mistress. He says it so nonchalantly, now, like he’s forgotten there was ever a time he didn't belong to me.

I can feel a smile in my heart, even if my face can't form the outward expression of it.

I nod.

Yes, my beautiful pet. I know what you meant. Go on.

“Right. So your Master makes the rules, and we all gotta abide by'em, whether we want to or not, or we get kicked off the team.”

…wait, there's a team?!

“Under him,” he wiggles the fingers of the next hand down, “are your trainers. You'll go to them at night, rotating through. Each one of em's in charge of his own subject, like teachers in school. They're allowed to train ya any way they like, but can't undo anything Lucifer's done, unless they get permission, first.” He splays his fingers wide. “If I tell ya you've got five trainers… do I really need to name'em?”

…Five trainers. If Lucifer's my Master, and Mammon's my handler, two from seven leaves… five.

Oh my god… it's all of them.

The whole starting lineup.

Everyone was in on this great cosmic joke, except me.

...I think I'm going to have to teach seven demon lords a very serious lesson in ‘Why We Don't Fuck With Our Human Masters', once this is all over.

Oblivious to both my wide-eyed epiphany and silent vow of revenge, Mammon carries right along without missing a beat. He switches his hands around, so the top hand is now the bottom, and waves it at me. “And this is me. Your handler, way down at the bottom. Every morning, when your trainer’s finished with ya, they'll send you back to me. It’s my job to cool ya down, and fix anything that needs fixing, and clean you up, and put you to bed. I still gotta go to all my classes, though – Lucifer was a real dick about that – so you can sleep while I'm gone, and when you wake up, I'll be right here waitin' to meet ya. I’m in charge of your schedule, too, so, like, which trainer you're with on which day, but other than that, I don't get to decide nothin'. I ain't allowed to let you out of anything Lucifer, or the rest of'em, put you in, neither. I can make them hurt less, but I can't take them off.” He glances down and whispers a fingertip over my muzzle. “That's why I can't take this off ya,” he sighs, “even though I know how much it sucks. It sucked for me, and I'm a demon; I can't imagine how painful it must be for a human. But still… I was kinda glad to see you wearin' it, this morning.”

I drill a glare into his face that could've melted lead.

“No, no! Not like that; I mean I was glad, because if Lucifer had to resort to breaking out a muzzle made for demons, it meant you gave the bastard a run for his money. Ya didn't go down easy. Ya made him work for it, just like I knew ya would.” Just when he's starting to make sense, he adds, “Plus, it… kinda looks good on you.”

I whap him in the temple with a hollow metal bowling ball.

You did NOT just say that.

“OW! Come on, ya know I got a thing for leather… and an even bigger thing for you. Put'em together, and… well, you know…”

Oh I do, do I? What, exactly, do I know, Mammon?

Well, I know you’re getting a wildly inappropriate hard-on, asshole; I can see it bulging against the crotch of your pants. I whack him again, in the groin, this time. Rein yourself in, bitch. I don't care what Lucifer says, you're still _mine_ , and I did _not_ give you permission to get turned on by this.

“UFF! Hnnnnngggg…” When he's finished doubling over and breathing through his mouth and massaging his crotch, he dips his eyes. “Nnnnggg… Yes, Mistress,” he groans. “Sorry. I'll be good.”

Damn right you will.

“But, uhh… that actually reminds me that there was something important I wanted to warn ya about,” he frowns, as he finishes sorting out his junk and his hormones long enough to get back to business. “See… we love ya. All of us. Under any other circumstances, any of us would gladly die before we'd let anything hurt ya; you know that.”

…I don't think I like where this is going.

He's watching his lap, now, where his fingers are picking away at the edge of a chipped fingernail, and lowers his voice. “But these circumstances ain't normal. Even though you're Lucifer's property, we all outrank you. On that totem pole, you're, like… here.” He puts his palm flat on the floor. “We all got the right to command you, and Lucifer's expecting us to use it. Sure, he's set out rules for us, of course, to protect you; we’re not allowed to hurt you worse than you can heal on your own; we're not allowed to… have you, sexually… we're _definitely_ not allowed to kill you. But…”

No. 

There is no ‘but' after that sentence, Mammon.

…My hands are starting to sweat.

“…I ain't supposed to steal things, neither. Beel ain't supposed to empty the fridge at midnight, and Belphie ain't supposed to fall asleep in class. Lucifer can lay out all the rules he wants, but sometimes… we just can't help ourselves, ya know? What I'm tryin' to say, is just…” he stops picking at his hands and starts toying with his collar's silver bell, instead, “when you give any demon that much power over a human, especially one he likes, one he’s always wanted but could never have, one he imagines is whisperin' in his ear when he's jackin' off at night… it's… well… it's real tempting, is all.”

Then a blue-eyed demon looks straight into my eyes, and it's my first day in the Devildom, all over again.

“And you know how good demons are at resisting temptation.”


	5. Settle me down.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mammon suddenly finds himself tempted by the knowledge that his beloved Mistress is now entirely his to command, to take and to use, without fear of reprisal from her lips nor Lucifer's hand, he's left no choice but to call in the cavalry to keep her safe. 
> 
> If he can't control himself, then someone else will have to do it for him...

I don't remember how to blink. My eyelids are paralyzed, along with every muscle between my scalp and my pinky toes. I don't think I'm breathing. 

Maybe, if I stay absolutely, completely, perfectly still, he'll forget I'm here.

Think invisible thoughts.

…I don't think it's working.

Mammon's glittering eyes are exploring every contour and brush-stroke of a museum piece set just off-limits behind a flimsy velvet rope; they're admiring the way the black leather is squeezing my cheeks and digging up under my chin; they're flicking back and forth between my nipples, tracing the path of the chain and imagining a hundred naughty, sinful things he could do with it; they're wandering over my stomach and my navel and the angled arches of my hips, over all the soft skin his Mistress keeps so tantalizingly out of reach, and wanting…

Just _wanting._

Being eyed by a hungry predator triggers all the most primitive instincts in my mammal brain; a wave of goosebumps creeps up my arms, pricking every tiny hair straight up in a pathetic attempt to puff up my fur and make me look big and scary and intimidating. I’m suddenly glad I pissed myself while I was alone, because if I hadn't, that same survival instinct would have left me peeing all over myself to make my scent less appetizing.

What a stupid species we are.

I’ve seen him wear this expression a thousand times before. He wears it in the street, when a shiny thing he could never possibly afford catches his eye in a shop window. He wears it at the palace, when he's trying to figure out a way to sneak a six-foot statue out the front door without anyone noticing.

He is the literal personification of greed, and when he sees something he wants, something he craves so badly he can feel it in his toes, something he has to possess, no matter the cost nor the punishment… he looks at it the way he's looking at me, right now, with a single question whispering in his covetous eyes.

_…could I?_

He's breathing through his mouth. His hands are twisting restlessly in his lap, where the unmistakable impression of a rapidly swelling erection is pressing hard against the crotch of his pants.

Invisible.

Don't move.

Don't even breathe.

Think invisible th-

Then tip of his tongue pokes out just far enough to wet his lips, and I flinch as sharply as if he'd thrown a haymaker at my face.

Oh shit.

I moved.

There go plans A-E.

Onto plan F, then.

F for This Better Fucking Work, because Plan G is just a panic attack.

I rear up on my knees so I can look down on him, contort my real terror into manufactured outrage, and channel every last drop of it into a smoldering, dominant glare.

MAMMON!

“MM-MN!”

His name is the only word I can still say (sort of), and even without the vowels, the familiar, two-toned hum is distinct enough to snap him to attention.

Lucifer might've stripped a human woman of her pact-gifted ability to command demons, but it'll take a hell of a lot more than a muzzle to strip a furious Mistress of her ability to command her own damn slave. (I HOPE) I narrow my eyes and growl low in my chest, lashing a disobedient bitch more cruelly with his Mistress' disapproval than Lucifer ever could with a bullwhip.

WHAT THE **FUCK** DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING

IF YOU **EVER** LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT AGAIN I WILL NAIL YOUR WINGS TO MY HARDWOOD FLOOR AND PEG YOUR UNGRATEFUL ASS SO HARD YOUR GRANDCHILDREN WILL HAVE NIGHTMARES ABOUT IT

“YIPE!”

His startled yelp is music to my ears. He cringes and snaps his gaze away, then curls his fingers through the ring hanging from the front of his collar and squeezes until his knuckles turn white. “Mistress,” he breathes, more to himself than to me, as he clutches at the ring, and my title, like they're the only things keeping him afloat on a dark and dangerous ocean. “I'm sorry, I don't… I mean, I was just… I thought I'd be ok, I really did…” He trails off there, shriveling under the glare I'm still drilling into the back of his neck, until he can bring himself to flick his guilty eyes up to face me. “I wasn't gonna do nothin', I swear... But maybe, err… just to be safe, I think I gotta… Ok, just… stay here a minute, alright?”

Wasn't exactly planning on going anywhere, but yeah. No problem.

He stumbles to his feet, pulls out his DDD and staggers around the convertible; the second he's out of my line of sight, my confident act folds faster than a shitty poker hand.

I collapse into my nest, and breathe.

My hands are shaking.

My heart is pounding in my ears.

…

…

Holy _shit._

That wasn't just a ‘Hail Mary’ pass, that was a ‘Hail Mary, mother of grace, the Lord is with thee; blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of please don't let me get eaten alive for this' pass.

The way my day's been going, I can't _believe_ it actually worked.

I'm not deluded enough to think it'll work a second time, though. He knelt for me, tonight. Will he still kneel for me in a week? In a month? Will he still bow his head and touch his collar after he commands me for the first time, forces his proud Mistress to her knees… and realizes that maybe, just maybe… he likes her like that?

I let my worried gaze wander over the four ugly spheres ensuring I stay good and helpless, and swallow the lump in my throat.

This is bad.

This is very, very bad.

If I'm not even safe in Mammon's hands, what can I-

“Hey. It's me again.”

Oh. He was so quiet for so long, I assumed he was texting someone.

Wonder why it took him this long to make his call?

I don't move, but cock my head so I can listen.

“Yeah, I… No, I told ya, I wrote that down! I ain't a moron, ya know! … … Am not! … … No, nothin’ like that; I need ya to come… settle me down, is all,” he murmurs, so quietly that I have to hold my breath to catch it.

Settle me down.

That's Mammon's ‘I still can’t admit I'm a masochist out-loud’ code-phrase for ‘beat my ass until all the bad thoughts go away.’

Lucifer knows that, and so do I.

Nobody else.

And Mammon isn't talking to me.

“…yeah. …yeah, exactly. … … … What? No way! Look, ya know I wouldn't be comin' to you with this if I had any other choice, so just get your butt over here and… Huh? … … Oh c'mon, you can't possibly be serious … … …”

Oh, Mammon, _please_ don't do this; come back over here and do with me whatever your greedy heart desires, just _please_ , for the love of god, don't bring-

“…fine,” he sighs. “Ok, ok, I hear ya! Ya don't have to keep… I mean… err… yeah. Yeah, I'll be ready. Just don't take too long, ok?”

…

…

…that's it, I guess.

I can already feel my palms starting to sweat, and can't help but feel disgusted with myself for being nervous to face Lucifer again so soon.

Isn't this supposed to be my sanctuary? My (if you use the term loosely enough) happy-place? The peaceful eye of my shit-storm hurricane?

Mammon side-steps back into my prison, unlocks me from the wall, and gives my leash a gentle – but insistent – tug, all without making eye-contact. “C'mon, girl. I gotta take care of this so I don't… lose myself, and do somethin' to ya I'll regret.” When I emphatically shake my head, dig myself deeper into my pillow-nest and stubbornly refuse to even roll over, let alone get onto my hands and knees, he finally risks a quick glance at the personification of his temptation – then shudders, clutches at his collar, and snaps his hungry eyes away. “Hnnngggg… Mistress, please,” he breathes, as he tugs despondently at the crotch of his pants, “I'm beggin ya… don't make me force you. I know crawlin'll be hard, both ‘cause of how you're all tied up and ‘cause you're the proudest human I ever met, but… if I gotta carry you… and, ya know… touch you… while I'm feelin' like this…” He licks his lips, then digs his fingernails into his own arm and squeezes until a tiny drop of blood trickles down his wrist. The tiniest bit of self-inflicted pain is enough to clear his mind, at least long enough to take control of the situation; he breathes deeply, sets his jaw, and pulls on my leash.

Hard, this time.

“Mishka!” he snaps, in a commanding tone I've never heard him use before, “Come! NOW.”

My heart skips too many beats to possibly be healthy. As certain as I am that the human world sky is blue, I _know_ he's about to drag me across the room by my neck to save us both, kicking and screaming, if necessary. Before he gets the chance to do something he'll hate himself for in the morning, I concede, and clumsily maneuver my way onto all fours.

For you, Mammon. I do this for you, and nobody else.

His sigh of relief is so deep, it could’ve pumped a year's worth of carbon dioxide into the room. “Thanks,” he breathes, as I struggle to follow him, with my bowling balls clanging and banging and slipping and sliding and trying to roll my wrists to pulp. “You just saved both our asses.”

He wasn’t kidding when he said it would be difficult to crawl like this; I've barely made it out of my nest before I give up trying to crawl like a proper bitch and drop onto my elbows to army-crawl, instead. He leads me along (but lets me set my own pace), while I squeeze my shoulders between his car and my table, then urges me up to the trunk of the tree that grows (only god knows why) right in the middle of my room, and leashes me to a low-hanging branch. “I know you probably don't wanna watch this,” he confesses, with his guilty eyes on the floor, “but I wanna… keep my eye on you, is all.”

…is that my over-protective guardian demon talking? Or the possessive, desirous Avatar of Greed?

I don't think I want to know. I hunker down against the scratchy bark, grateful for the bit of protection it offers but already missing the pseudo-privacy afforded by my makeshift cell, and watch as my fretting pet peels off his tie, then his jacket, then his shirt, hurling each one in a random direction, then begins unbuckling his belt.

We both snap out heads up when the door opens without so much as a courtesy knock. Mammon curses under his breath, rips his belt free of a half-dozen loops with one determined haul, then turns to greet his guest. “Geez, that… that was fast. So, uhh… how do ya wanna do this?”

In lieu of a greeting of my own, all I can do is gape like a landed trout.

…

Is this what an aneurysm feels like? Because my brain feels like it's not firing on every available cylinder.

…

…For a few seconds, I can't process who it is. All my sputtering neurons can piece together coherently is:

That’s **not** Lucifer.

“I thought I told you to be ready before I got here,” Satan snaps, as he pulls the door closed behind him. “I'm doing you a favour – a HUGE favour, mind you – and you don't even have the decency to do the ONE thing I asked you to do? Is this how you present yourself for Mishka? Or Lucif-" He catches sight of me, sitting naked and helpless against a tree trunk and trying my damndest to think invisible thoughts again, and narrows his scalding eyes.

He's glaring at me like he hates me, with every last fiber of his being.

Anyone who thinks Lucifer is the most intimidating of the seven has never faced down Satan on a bad day.

I curl into the tiniest ball my body can make, and drop my eyes to keep from unintentionally triggering the wrath of a furious predator.

I'd thought Satan, out of all of them, would afford me some sympathy. This is Lucifer's bullshit, after all. I thought he'd be the first one to rebel against such a blatant abuse of power. There was simply no way Satan, out of all of them, would be caught dead humoring his elder’s rules just because he'd been commanded to.

He doesn't look very sympathetic, though.

He looks furious.

His words are sharp, and edged with cyanide.

There's blood on one of his hands.

His eyes frozen emeralds, too solidly caked in ice to even sparkle anymore.

He's still glaring at me like it's _my_ fault he’s gotten dragged into a game he never wanted to play, and holds me solely responsible for everything that comes of it

Mammon might've called Satan, but it was the Avatar of Wrath who showed up at my doorstep.

I wither under his silent, scathing accusation, and am suddenly, for the first time, painfully aware and ashamed of my nudity. I swallow the anxious lump in my throat and cover myself as best I can, feeling all the while like I've read this awful story somewhere before.

Satan doesn't say a word to, nor about, me. After an eternity of loathing my very existence in seething silence, he turns back to Mammon, instead. “I'm due at a gallery opening in an hour, so get your pants off before I rip them off of you.”

“Hold your damn horses,” Mammon mumbles, even as he starts kicking his way out of his uniform, one foot at a time. “I'm goin’ as fast as I can.”

They aren't looking at each other. Mammon's eyes are on the floor as he obediently strips naked. Satan's are on the ceiling, now, so he doesn't have to watch.

Mine are flicking back and forth between them, pretending they don't know all too well what's happening.

Ever since the night I gave Mammon to Satan as an experiment, there's been something left unsaid between them. Something quiet. Something guilty. Something… needy. Whenever I pressed Mammon on the subject, he vehemently denied that there anything blossoming between him and his little brother that shouldn't have been, and that was (at least technically) the truth. Mammon cannot lie to me. But what's technically true in the moment can never define what's bubbling just below the surface, what deep and dark and private yearning may already exist, even if neither of them has acted on it…

Mammon didn't hate the way Satan dominated him, that night.

And Satan didn't hate it, either.

Even if they’ve never acted on it again, if they both brushed it off as a one-time thing, as an experiment, as a curiosity, as a game… I've seen the way they've looked at each other, ever since. The way Mammon clears his throat and surreptitiously bows his head when they pass in the hall between classes. The way Satan jealously watches, out of the corner of his eye, when Mammon flops down so comfortably on the floor beside my chair in the dining hall, and grins up at me as he eats and chats my ear off.

Whatever I unintentionally started between them is a long, long way from finished.

It might not stay that way for long, though.

It's an immeasurable relief, at least, no longer being the only naked person in the room, nor the obvious center of attention. I keep my gaze fixed on Mammon, because A) Satan is viciously pretending I don't exist, and I'd like it to stay that way, and B) No matter what else might be going on in my life, I have never been able to peel my hungry eyes off of Mammon when he's naked.

Like any self-respecting student council member, Mammon keeps every bit of skin that's visible while he's in uniform presentable, but under his clothes, the greedy corvid's lithe, tanned body is decorated to the nines with shiny trinkets. His piercings are all real gold, of course, and other than the seven barbells that make up the Jacob’s ladder running up the underside of his shaft, the rest – in his nipples, his navel, and wrapped around the head of his cock - are all rings, both delicate enough to present themselves as jewelry and thick enough to serve as anchors when the mischievous bastard needs to be hung from the ceiling by something more painful than his ankles. His thighs, his abs, his back and his ass are criss-crossed with white, hairline scars that he hides with makeup when he models, but delights in tracing with his fingertips when he's alone. The pencil-thin strip of hair he leaves between his navel and his cock is as brilliantly white as his tousled hair, and when he's not wearing a belt and his pants are hanging low and cock-eyed on his hips, makes for such a naughty invitation to explore all the dirty bits beneath that I could well be a demon myself, for how shamefully I've so often succumbed to the temptation.

As sexy as he is when he's brimming with confidence, when he's showing himself off with his hands on his hips and a boyish grin lighting up his face, he is downright _detectable_ when he's nervous.

Like right now, for instance.

The poor boy, usually so comfortable in his own skin, looks tonight like he's trying it on for the very first time, and nothing about it fits quite the way it should. He's frowning at the floor and shifting his weight; his hands are restless and at a loss for what they should be doing, torn between rubbing his thighs and fiddling with his collar bell and absently fondling the rungs of his ladder. He isn't hard, but he isn't exactly soft, either, and the longer he tickles and twists the ends of each barbell, the more eagerly his cock twitches against his knuckles.

Errmmm… Satan? Hello? You're here to do a job, Cranky McCrankface; where the hell are you?!

Mammon's keeping his eyes properly downcast, but I can track his line of sight as easily as if it was a bright red laser dot on the floor, and the more blood his anxious fondling urges out of brain, the more his attention wanders in directions it really shouldn't be wandering. His irises are creeping sideways in their sockets, guiltily flicking now and then in the opposite direction but always drifting back again, until their first hesitant caresses tickle over my calf and up the inside of my thigh, leaving a very real trail of shivery goosebumps in their wake.

He licks his lips and strokes himself harder, no longer idly playing with his piercings but actively urging his dick to harden in his palm, and all I can do is swallow the saltine lump in my throat and squirm uncomfortably at the realization that he's using my naked body as dehumanized pornography.

“Oh HELL no!” Out of nowhere, Satan grabs a handful of white hair and wrenches his brother's head back, presumably to snap him out of it.

…Ok, while I do appreciate the thought, it's execution is… somewhat lacking. Satan’s read a lot of stuff about a lot of things, but if he thinks pulling a masochist’s hair will make him want to STOP masturbating, he must've missed a chapter somewhere.

Completely unsurprisingly, Mammon’s eyes roll like wet marbles, and he arches up against the sting to ensure it hurts as much as it possibly can. “AHHhhhh…. Nnnnnnnngh… Yeah,” he moans, “yeah, that's what I need… Just keep doin' that…” Now he's jerking-off for real, squeezing his cock so tightly in his fist that his piercings are popping in and out of sight between his knuckles with every increasingly determined pump, until Satan bitch-slaps him in the back of the head hard enough to send him reeling.

“You have GOT to be kidding me! Mammon! What the hell is wrong with you?!” Before Mammon can pick up where he was so rudely interrupted, Satan grabs both of his wrists and wrenches them up behind his back.

“GYAH! What the hell, man?!” Mammon puts on a convincing show; he curses and struggles and snarls between his teeth, but despite the fact that he could easily break free, if he really wanted to, he lets himself be overpowered. “C'mon! Let me finish!”

“Absolutely not. You called me here to settle you down, not watch you masturbate like a horny teenager.” He binds his brother's wrists together with the leather belt Mammon so hastily discarded, then feeds the longest end through the ring hanging from the back of his collar, braces himself, and pulls with all his might. Mammon grunts as his hands are forced right up to the nape of his neck, then groans and arches up on his toes as being tied up triggers a surge of pre-cum that oozes uselessly down his shaft.

Satan scowls and back-hand slaps his brother's swollen hard-on, triggering a very loud, very satisfying, yowl of pain. “NO.” With a revolted grimace, he uses his brother's back to wipe the juices off his hand. “Ugh. Gross. How the hell do you even have sex at all, with all that hardware jammed in the way?”

Mammon twists around to level a panting, sweaty grin at his little brother. “Bend over and I'll show ya.”

In spite of everything, I almost snicker.

Satan doesn't find the incestuous invitation nearly as endearing as I do, and his eyes flare so angrily that I'm half-convinced the whole House is about to burst into flame and roast all of us alive. “This is what I get,” he snarls, as he hauls on the leash and drags his captive backwards, stumbling and cursing, over to the tree, “for trying to be nice. I don't know if Lucifer or Mishka lets your bratty ass top from the bottom, but you're sure as _shit_ not going to do it with me.” He tosses the free end of the belt over the same branch I’m hunkered beneath, pulls until Mammon’s wheezing and prancing in place on his tip-toes, and secures him like that.

Even so near, Satan doesn't spare me so much as a passing glance; in fact, he swats me out of his way with a single, irritated kick, and I make it my immediate business to _move_.

“Open your mouth.”

“Hell… no…” Mammon wheezes. “Just ‘cause… you think… you’re inhrrpphh!” Whatever argument he was trying to make is jammed right back down his throat by his own uniform tie. Mammon chokes and gags as Satan slowly, determinedly, packs his mouth full of six feet of silk, until his eyes are watering and his jaws are forced so far apart they look like they might never close again. Two short yellow ends, neither longer than an inch, are all that's left dangling from his mouth once Satan's finished with him.

“Mmmph! Mm…MMmmNNN!”

“Finally,” Satan mutters. “You have no idea how many centuries I've been waiting to shut you up.”

Mammon growls, shakes his head and immediately tries to spit out his makeshift gag. That much, at least, Satan was prepared for; he clamps a hand firmly over his brother's mouth, and uses the other to deliver a solid, unapologetic spanking. “NO.” The wet slap of skin-on-skin echoes through my tiny room, and Mammon yelps like a soundly beaten dog.

“MMPH!”

With nobody left to talk to, Satan launches into a bitter, hateful monologue as he at last gets around to the dirty business of ‘settling Mammon down’. “I cannot **_BELIEVE_** ,” (the emphasis on the word is another vicious spank, delivered by such a powerful hand that if Mammon had been a human, it would've split his skin like an apple peel) “you're making me **_DO THIS._**

(WHAP)

Are you **_INCAPABLE_**

(WHAP)

of keeping yourself in **_CHECK_**

(WHAP)

for five lousy **_MINUTES?!”_**

(WHAP)

“You **_KNOW_** … I am **_NOT_** … in a 

**_GOOD_ **

**_FUCKING_ **

**_MOOD!”_ **

He hammers those last three home in rapid-fire succession, then shakes the sting out of his hand, tears off a broken fingernail with his teeth and goes right back to work.

Two perfect handprints are already puffing up, angry and red, on Mammon's tightly straining ass, and another dozen impressions of criss-crossing fingers are swelling in between them. His sharp yelps quickly dissolve into muffled grunts as the assault drags on, then into low, earnest moans. There's sweat dripping from his hair and trickling, hot and steaming, down his back, and a fishing line of drool dangling from his chin. Every devastating impact jerks him up on his toes and makes his fingers go rigid, but during the minute in-betweens, whenever his abuser has to stop for a second to reposition or switch hands, Mammon groans and leans down so he can thrust his ass back out, eagerly inviting every last drop of pain his little brother can possibly dish out.

Settle me down. 

I need you to come settle me down.

Satan stops talking and focuses all of his attention on spanking some much-needed self-control into his insubordinate brother, and I quickly lose count of how many blows he's landed.

Twenty?

Forty?

By the time Mammon's ass is so swollen that he might never sit down again, Satan's panting nearly as hard as his victim. Ringlets of blonde hair are sticking to his face. His shirt is plastered to his back, soaked through with sweat.

But for all his efforts to drill the horny out of him, Mammon's cock is still fully, painfully erect, and as every impact sends it bouncing against his stomach, providing split-second moments of physical contact, his moans get louder and more insistent, taking on a desperately pleading subtext.

_Finish me off_

_Please_

_I'm fucking begging you_

_I'm **SO** close_

The message isn't lost in the wind. Breathing like a winded thoroughbred, Satan presses his body up against Mammon's back and runs one hand gently, soothingly, over his tenderized buttocks (which, by this point, are so raw that Mammon still winces and hisses through his gag at this lightest bit of contact), and after a moment’s hesitation, slides his other hand around his brother's hips and makes a loose fist around the head of his cock.

“Fuck it,” Satan hisses in his ear. “I'm not about to degrade myself by giving your pathetic ass a handjob, so if you _want_ it,” he closes his hand just enough to tickle the gold ring pierced through his victim's urethra, “then _fuck it_.”

Mammon's already light-years ahead of him, on that front. Before Satan's even finished talking, he's thrusting in and out of his brother's fist with an enthusiasm bordering on desperation. He's straining so hard against his leash that he's choking himself, and definitely not by accident; his chest is heaving and he's twisting his fingers through his hair, grabbing handfuls of his own white locks and pulling for all he's worth as pain and pleasure combine to light up every nerve at once and flood his whole body with electrifying tingles. 

“Warn me before you finish,” Satan snarls. “I'm not about to-"

Mammon whines, loudly and without a speck of shame, as he twists his hair into a tight-fisted knot and arches up on his toes. “MMmmMMNN! MMPH HMM!”

Satan yanks his hand away, leaving his brother convulsively thrusting against empty air; just when I'm certain this is some sort of sick, sadistic edge-play, though, he spits on his palm, cups his hand, and 

_“Cum for your new Master, you worthless piece of shit.”_

finishes him off with a single, devastating gunshot crack of skin hammering skin.

Mammon's breath catches in his throat. His abs clench and his toes curl; his hips reflexively buck a half-dozen times as a stream of hot, thick cum shoots so far across the room I'm surprised Guinness isn't already here to hand him a plaque.

…

And just like that…

it's over.

Mammon shudders, and sags against his leash.

The only sound left in the room is hot, heavy breathing.

…well.

THAT was interesting. 

Satan, panting weakly, grabs one of the loose ends of the tie hanging from Mammon's lips, and pulls. Mammon sputters and chokes as inch after sopping inch of yellow silk gets yanked out of his mouth like he's an unwilling participant in some sick magician's handkerchief trick. He coughs the last bit out himself, wipes the drool off his chin with his shoulder, then spits on the floor. “Bleh. Coulda done without the gag, but whatever,” he mutters. “All in all, though, you're, uhh… pretty good at this,” he mumbles, without making eye-contact with his brother. “For a beginner, I mean. I know you ain't exactly been Mr Sunshine lately, so, ya know… thanks for-"

“Don't thank me yet,” Satan returns, at last sounding a little – not completely, but a little – like he doesn't want to murder every living thing in a five-mile radius. “I'm not finished with you.”

“Huh?”

“How long will one orgasm keep you satiated, Mammon?” Satan asks, as he pulls an oddly- shaped piece of translucent yellow Plexiglas out of his pocket and pats himself down, searching for the rest of it. “A few minutes? An hour? I have better things to do than ‘settle you down' every night for the next month, so… When a horny tom can’t keep himself from screwing every queen in the neighborhood, do you know what we do to him?”

“Who the hell is Tom?”

…my pet, ladies and gentlemen.

Satan stops what he's doing and levels a dead-pan stare at his brother. “You're an idiot. At least this will ensure you don't spend the next month pumping _that_ ,” he points at me without looking at me, “full of idiot, half-breed babies.”

I flush and drop my eyes, and hope they don't bring me up again. That. Not ‘her'. _That._ Whatever I did to piss him off, the Avatar of Wrath is taking it personally.

Gee, I can't wait until it's his night to train me. Bet we'll have all sorts of fun. 

“Horny tom or idiot demon - you castrate him,” Satan finishes, as he snatches a shirt off the floor and uses it to carefully dry off his brother's flaccid dick. “Since I don't feel like getting my hands any dirtier than they already are, though, we’ll settle for something temporary. For now.”

“Whoa whoa whoa! No fricken way!” Mammon snaps his hips away, grabs his leash in both hands and tries to snap it off the tree branch. It doesn't give an inch. “Hey! What the- Break, damn you!”

Satan sighs as he kneels down. “Do you really think I'd tie you up with something I hadn't enchanted, first? Relax, stupid. You'll be fine. I'm not going to cut your balls off, I promise. Now stand still.”

When Mammon neither relaxes nor stands any degree of still, Satan rolls his eyes, grabs his brother’s scrotum in his fist, and twists.

“OW OW OW! KNOCK IT OFF, DUDE! I NEED THOSE! OK, OK! I'M BEIN' GOOD, ALRIGHT!” Mammon hisses between his teeth and mutters a handful of not-so-being-good insults under his breath when Satan lets him have him manhood back, then prances nervously on his tip-toes as he watches himself be forcibly ‘settled down’ for good.

I, too, can't help but watch, reluctantly entranced, as Satan slides the clear, contoured Plexiglas shell over his brother's cock, then teases half of his prince albert ring out a narrow slit in the front. He secures the second half of the device, a Plexiglas ring, around the base of his testicles and his shaft, and locks both halves together with a tiny brass padlock. There's a dark, wry smile playing across his lips by the time he feeds a second padlock through his brother's piercing and clicks it shut, leaving his unfortunate cock not just locked in, but right to, its indiscreet little prison.

Satan looks satisfied, Mammon looks mortified, and I'm wondering why the hell I never thought of this before.

The placated Avatar of Wrath chuckles to himself, gives his brother’s neatly secured package a playful swat, then pushes himself to his feet and ruffles Mammon's hair. “Comfortable?”

Mammon's glare is drier than a week-old bagel. “I hate you.”

“Most people do,” Satan smirks. “But you should be thanking me. Not only have I provided you a convenient solution to your pathetic lack of self-control, but I even let you get off, first.” He idly twists one of Mammon's nipple rings as he talks, just to watch him squirm. “And you're welcome, by the way.”

“Bite me. And… nnnggh… stop that! Don't you have a… nnnnnngh!... museum thing you're supposed to go to?”

From my front-row seat at crotch level, I get the unique pleasure of watching Mammon's imprisoned cock start to swell inside its prison for the very first time. There's no room for it to grow in there, though, and after only a second or two of Satan's cruel teasing, Mammon grimaces and squeezes his thighs together as what would be the beginning of an erection becomes painful, unyielding constriction, instead.

“Unfortunately, yes. I do.” Satan might be talking to his brother, but he's watching the same show I am, and can't stop smirking. “I suppose I’ll be taking my leave, then,” he sighs, as he stops tormenting his squirming victim and takes a quick look around to make sure he isn't forgetting anything.

“Hold on! How long do ya really expect me to wear this dumb thing?! You're gonna… maybe, leave the keys with me, right?”

“Of course not. Once the Centamine is over, you can come to my room and beg me to take it off.” Halfway to the door, he waves over his shoulder. “Have fun babysitting Lucifer's bitch.”

…ouch.

“Hey! Wait! Where the hell do ya think you're going?! Get back here and let me down!”

“It's just a belt, dumbass,” Satan snorts, as he lets himself out and pulls the door closed behind him. “Figure it out.”


End file.
